


Rain in the Valley

by all_the_kings_ham



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Samifer - Freeform, Teenage Sam, dramatic time lapse, hiding from the rain, lucifer isnt lucifer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_the_kings_ham/pseuds/all_the_kings_ham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's just looking to get out of the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never come across a spn ship that I couldn't get aboard- but I have to say that samifer is one of my favorites.  
> And frankly, there just isn't enough of it out there.

 

His big brother’s smile was a dangerous thing which spoke volumes to Sam. It meant he was leaving him behind to fend for himself against the perils of the high school dance. It meant that the giggling blonde cheerleader in her lime green party dress, hanging off Dean’s arm would be tonight’s conquest. It meant that Dean wanted Sam to get himself safely back to the house off Mullan road that they were squatting in, because Dean would be taking the Impala with him and Malibu Barbie.

That smile was Dean’s way of asking if Sam would be ok on his own, just for tonight. Asking if Sam would rat him out to John for leaving him unsupervised.

Sam rolled his eyes, which was his way of saying that he thought Dean was a mess who hadn’t been able to control himself around high school cheerleaders since he was in high school himself- and Sam was disappointed in him. But he also smiled and shrugged, which was his way of telling Dean to take off. Sam was almost seventeen and he didn’t need his brother taking care of him anymore- despite their Dad’s insistence. He had been taller than Dean for almost a year and taller than their Dad for months. He had finally grown into the promise of his overly large hands and feet, even if his shoulders hadn’t caught up yet. Sam was an awkward mess of limbs and elbows that could walk himself the five miles from the school gym back to the house.

They had only been in Mobile Alabama for two weeks, not long enough for Sam to really make friends- besides, it was mid May and school would be out soon. People hadn’t really been interested in letting the enormous new kid into their close circles of friends. That was ok with him. As soon as John got back from his hunt out in Bayou La Bartre the Winchesters would be off again. Sam had learned years ago to not bother getting too attached.

In all honesty he wasn’t sure why he had bothered going to the end of the year dance in the first place- except that Dean had somehow talked him into it. Watching his brother leave with an arm around the trim waist of someone who was probably named Bambi, or Violet or Sugar- Sam had his suspicion of why they had come out here.

Sometimes he thought that he might hate his brother.

He was almost positive that you could still love someone and hate them at the same time.

Feelings were complicated like that, and had only gotten more so the older he got.

That day had been warm, sultry southern air like someone had left the heater running. The night wasn’t much better, except that the humidity had jumped from fifty to about a hundred. It was hot and it was dark and it was raining… and Sam was walking home.

It was ok with him. The house they were squatting in didn’t really have a working shower. It had been abandoned sometime in the seventies, built long before the turn of the century, and all it had was an old copper tub with a faucet that ran cloudy water that tasted like minerals and earth.

Sam was getting the first good shower he had had since coming to Alabama.

Maybe he would thank Dean tomorrow morning when his brother slunk in like an alley cat, with that damned smile of his and delicate little bruises on his neck.

Five miles wasn’t far, especially not for a kid like Sam, who could easily run the distance without having to take a break- but going off the main street, down a muddy lane that had long been abandoned, away from yellowed electric street lights, into the dark- it was a little different. He was walking cautious, wary of pot holes and rocks that were all but invisible in the darkness.

About a mile and a half in, his boots heavy with the red mud that seemed to cover everything out here, the gentle shower upped the ante to a full blown storm. It felt like drowning on dry land, and Sam was blinking water from his eyes, looking for a good tree or something to hide under.

He must have wandered onto a side street in the dark, because he came across something better than a sturdy tree, something he knew wasn’t on the way to his temporary home. He found an old church, its little windows lit faintly against the sheets of water battering the white washed walls like a siege. Someone was home- and if years of following his dad and brother from hunting one nightmare to the next, had taught Sam anything, it was that churches were a spectacular place to find refuge.

As long as you didn’t tell the priests what you were hiding from.

That tended to include a police phone call and all kinds of unhelpful allegations of being on drugs.

But Sam was running from a storm this time, not a demon, and the night was looking up again.

“Hello?” He shook the door handles, and felt a moment of doubt when they didn’t give under his battering. Maybe the lights were on a timer, or just left on for security…  “Is there anyone home?” He wasn’t _really_ against breaking into a church. It wouldn’t be for anything nefarious. Just hiding until the rain let up.

No one answered his shouts.

He didn’t have his lock pick tools with him (not normal things to take to a school dance after all), and it was a bit too dark to see well enough to jimmy the lock. He could break a window… but that felt a bit like blasphemy.

So- lock it was. He would just do it blind.

Dean would be proud.

He pulled out his boot knife and slipped it into the seam between the doors. The lock was old, he might be able to push the bolt back like people did with credit cards in movies.

The door cracked open about the time that the mud and water had reached the tops of Sam’s boots and his ass. He was crouched down, trying to level himself with the lock, get some leverage on the oddly sturdy and stubborn bit of metal. The click of tumblers was a reassuring, solid noise. “Thank you.” He sighed in relief.

“You’re welcome.”

Sam looked up, eyes wide in surprise. He hadn’t expected an answer. But it wasn’t the door that had spoken, it was the blonde man on the other side of the door, looking down at him with a curious expression.

“Oh,” He quickly stood, smiling the smile that always got him off the hook with Dean, praying now that it would get the stranger to overlook the knife naked in his hand and his obvious breaking and entering. “Hi.” Sweet innocent Sammy here- nothing to worry about. He tucked the knife away and looked the man almost dead in the eye. He was a bit shorter than Sam, about Dean’s height, about Dean’s age too, by the looks of it. So, early twenties then, short blonde hair, ratty jeans, black tshirt, visible tattoos on his arms- he wasn’t a priest whoever he was.

“Nice night for a swim.” He said, no hint of a southern drawl in his soft, sarcastic tone. Not a priest, not from around here, and not letting Sam in the doors.

Sam pushed his wet hair back from his face, blinking wildly, smiling a little more gently, pulling out all his best tricks. “It’s not really what I had in mind when I started walking home. I think I got lost.”

“Well, this is a church.” He smiled back for just a moment, his pale blue eyes sparking like an arsonist’s dream, and Sam felt taken aback at what an odd thought that was. “It’s a good place for lost people I suppose.” He stepped back, making room for Sam, and inadvertently a gusting downpour of rain that puddle in the entry way.

Sam came in with the wind and rain, dripping even more water in his wake. “Thanks.” His smile twisted to a grin, even if it wasn’t returned.

“It’s really coming down out there. You’re welcome to stay until it lets up.” The man crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles in his arms tensing just a little. He looked marvelously humorless, but equally unthreatening and Sam felt himself relaxing as much as anyone could in mud filled boots and wet jeans.

“I’m sorry if I woke you or something.” Awkward small talk was awkward. “I’m Sam.” He held out his hand to shake, just like his dad had always taught him too. 

“Nick.” He took Sam’s hand into a firm, but oddly cold handshake, like he wasn’t part of the muggy heat that seemingly covered this whole state. “I’m the caretaker here.”

And that made a bit of sense. The building didn’t exactly look abandoned, in fact, the inside was fairly cozy as churches went- so maybe Nick was who he said he was. Sam would give him the benefit of a doubt- but he would give the same to about anyone who saved him from drowning out there in the rain.

“You wanna take your boots off and leave ‘em by the door? I’ll go get you something dry to wear.” No other preamble, just calm, even instructions and off he walked out of the foyer and down one of the little side halls witch either lead to the sanctuary or the priest’s quarters.

Sam did as he was told- he couldn’t help it. It was just how he was raised. “It’s a nice place you got here.” He sighed and managed to untangle his laces, sliding out of his muddy boots and slightly less muddy socks. Dean was the one well practiced in small talk. Sam was still an apprentice.

Nick came back down the hall, jeans, shirt and, towel under an arm. His pale eyes took in Sam standing beside his muddy shoes, his wet clothes plastered to his lanky frame.

“Did you roll or walk your way down into the valley, Sammy?” He didn’t offer the clothes he held.

Sam winced at the nickname that he had been trying desperately to shake off for years. “It’s Sam. Just Sam.” He pushed his wet hair from his eyes again. “I was walking from the school-”

“That’s nearly six miles from here.” Nick handed over the towel first.

“Really?” He held the towel awkwardly for a moment before pulling it over his head and trying to squeeze what water he could from his dripping hair. “Then I’m a lot more lost than I thought.”

He caught a glimpse between the folds of the towel and saw Nick smiling at him, an odd little smile that looked vaguely predatory for the smallest of moments before opening up and reaching his eyes. It sent all the air rushing out of Sam’s chest and drew out a curious, curling warmth low in his stomach- and he smiled back like he couldn’t help himself.

Sam had no idea how lost he really was.


	2. Chapter 2

They sat at the tiny kitchen’s even tinier table. Sam on the lone chair, Nick leaning against the ledge of the windowsill a few feet away. The caretaker had offered Sam something to drink (even if he wasn’t from around here, he obviously hadn’t neglected to acquire some of that southern hospitality which ran rampant in these parts), and when Sam asked for a beer he actually got a bit of a laugh out of the man.

The glass of lemonade sweated between Sam’s hands, it was refreshing, even if it was more tart than anything else.

“So how does someone get to be a caretaker of a church in the middle of nowhere?” It was only a hint more than small talk- Sam was honestly curious. If he found a way to escape his Dad and their nomadic lifestyle, settling down in a peaceful little place like this, to be alone with his books and nature… Sam had dreams like this. Good dreams.

Nick turned his gaze away from the rain running in a shallow river over his window. “I don’t know about normal people, but I inherited the job.” He shifted where he was resting his glass against a knee, leaving behind a dark ring of moisture. “The guys in my family are all priests. My brother, my father, and so on.” He nodded his head to the side a little, giving Sam the idea that the family business went back quite a ways. “When we were teenagers my brother would stay up late studying scripture and I would be getting dragged home by the local police.” His smile from earlier flashed through his eyes, and Sam couldn’t really look away. “It was obvious that I was never going to make it as a minister, so after I finished seminary they dumped me here to keep me out of trouble.”

 _Seminary_? Did that mean that he really was a priest? Or at least was qualified on some level…? Sam wished he knew a bit more about these kinds of things, but it’s not like it came up often. He tried to imagine Nick dressed in the black suit with the white collar, and then had to change his mind because those probably went with Catholic priests not Baptist- and he would do some research tomorrow at the library.

“And how’s that working?” He tried not to be too obvious when he looked at Nick’s tattoos. One arm had a hammerhead shark and other nautical things, all the way down to his wrist- there was writing on his left forearm, but by how it was rested against his leg Sam couldn’t make out what it said. “That whole keeping out of trouble business?”

“Some nights are better than others.” Nick said, his voice soft and more than a little amused, and that funny feeling in Sam’s stomach was back as easily as if it had never left.

Sam wasn’t the kind of teenager who spent all his time chasing girls- but it wasn’t like he didn’t find girls to be charming and distracting either. It was more like he was still trying to get used to the new length of his limbs and it made him a clumsy kind of awkward that was more embarrassing than anything else... that and he just didn’t want to have to compete with Dean.

His studies always seemed like a more productive use to his time anyways. He wanted out of this life, and good grades would certainly give him a better chance of that than fooling around in the back of a car with some girl he didn’t really know.

He always did his best to keep his hormones in line- and it had never really been an issue before.

Nick hid a smile behind his lemonade.

Sam did the same.

“You’re not from around here.” Nick glanced back out the window. It wasn’t really a question, but Sam answered anyhow.

“Nah, me and my family are just passing through.” He set his glass down gently, not taking his eyes from Nick’s strong profile, the long line of his neck. “We move around a lot. This is the seventh school I’ve been in this year.”

The blonde looked back at him, eyes widened a little in surprise. “That’s rough.”

“Yeah.” He managed to look away, suddenly uncomfortable. He never really liked talking about himself. “How’s that rain going?”

“It’s not going.” Nick slid from the windowsill and went to rummage in a kitchen cabinet. “But these summer storms can get a little rough.”

Sam turned in his seat, straining to watch the other man, but at the same time to not look too obvious about it. Nick had pulled out a bottle that looked suspiciously like vodka and poured a little into his lemonade.

“You might just be stuck here until morning, Sam.”

And Sam kind of liked how he said his name, slow, careful, like he was testing it. He smiled into his drink again, thinking that it was still far too hot in here despite the rain or the ceiling fan that lazily spun overhead.

“I don’t have a phone for you to call home. I’m sorry.” He put the bottle away and came back to the table, to his windowsill.

“That’s alright. I don’t have anyone waiting up for me.” And what made him say that? That wasn’t the kind of information that you tell strange men you’ve just met out in the middle of nowhere. Granted, Nick hadn’t set off any of Sam’s alarms, but still. If you’re ever alone with strangers, you make them believe that you’ve got someone out there looking for you. It tended to keep any ill intent from coming out. People were less likely to try something bad when they knew that someone would notice if you went missing.

Nick was watching Sam, in that slow, unthreatening way that he had to practice in front of a mirror or something for it to be as perfect as it was. His eyes reminded Sam of a glacier he had seen a few years back when a hunt had taken them all the way up to Alaska, clear and wintry and impossibly blue. Nick’s gaze didn’t quite meet Sam’s, it was a little far south, on Sam’s mouth.

They both seemed to notice at about the same time and Nick was suddenly looking back out the window and Sam found the melting ice in his drink very interesting.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He’d never looked twice at guy in his life, never even thought about them in the shower or anything. But here was this man, a far bit too old for Sam, with arms like a prison convict’s, and a smile that moved over his face like good memory.

Sam was suddenly plagued by thoughts of warm, dark corners, bodies pressed together, breaths mingling. His face felt hot and he consulted his drink about it, pressing the cool glass to his left cheek, closing his eyes. With his arm raised it put his shoulder just a bit closer to his mouth and nose, and he could smell Nick on the borrowed clothes. Or at least that was Sam assumed the smell was. It was a good smell, even if unfamiliar. Cool, clean, and positively intoxicating. Sam took a slow, even breath through his nose and smiled against the soft material.

“You alright?”

Sam’s eyes flew open and he felt heat climbing up his neck. “ ‘m fine. Just getting a bit tired I guess.”

Nick looked from Sam to the old clock above the stove. It had to be broken, its face dusty, the secondhand still. “Right.” He set his drink on the table beside Sam’s. “I’ve got an extra blanket, if you don’t mind sleeping on one of the pews in the chapel.”

Sam felt himself frown just a touch and he didn’t know why. He just supposed that Nick would have, at some point, told him that due to the church being so small there was only one little room… one little bed… and Sam was welcome to share it with him-

He shook himself, banishing the unfamiliar thoughts, praying that none of them showed on his face. “I don’t mind.” Honestly, he had slept worse places than on a church pew.

He followed Nick down the hall to the chapel, trying his best not to admire the view. He had enough problems right now- namely that the jeans he was struggling to keep on were a few sizes too big for him and he had to hold them to keep them up, fist against his hip, while kind of goose stepping in an effort to not trip over the long legs trapping his feet. It wasn’t the Nick was taller, not at all, but he had that wonderfully solid muscle to him that came with age. Sam was strong, but all his muscle was stretched thin over his bones, strung tight like a violin, all cords and sinew. If Dean growth was any kind of foreshadowing, Sam would get more solid around the time he hit nineteen, but that was years off and for now he was a scarecrow.

“It’s not much.” Nick gestured to the chapel like a prize model on a game show. There was an alter, six whole rows of worn, wooden benches and six tall arching windows giving an oddly picturesque view of the cypress trees wadding deep in the night black water of the swamps outside.

Sam hadn’t seen the swamps while he was walking, but it definitely drove home the fact that he had gotten off track at some point. The house off Mullan road didn’t back into the swamps- there were a good few miles of forest between where he and Dean were camping out and the slow moving river. Sam would have to do a lot of backtracking tomorrow morning to get back where he was supposed to be.

“It’s fine.” He pushed some hair from his eyes and smiled at Nick, deep enough that he could feel his cheeks dimpling. He was grateful for a place to stay, and he knew that it didn’t hurt to show it.

Nick didn’t say anything for a long breath, standing far too close, little flick of his eyes back to Sam’s mouth. The blonde took the smallest of steps closer to him and Sam’s smile withered on the edges, uncertain, his heart coming up to his throat.

But Nick stepped around him and started off down the hall, talking over his shoulder as he went. “I’ll find you that blanket. Those benches are damned uncomfortable.”

“Th-thanks.” He sort of mumbled before turning into the chapel, settling himself down on the last bench, the one closest to the door. The wood was so old it felt soft, worn by so much use and so many years. It was a quiet room, if you could ignore the rain and wind outside, just a pocket of peacefulness in the midst of the summer storm. Sam knew he would sleep well in here- even if he didn’t have his gun, even if there wasn’t salt at each window. This was a GOOD place. He could feel it in his bones.

Nick placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and Sam almost jumped out of his skin. He half pulled away, death grip on the back of the bench, eyes wide, looking up at the other man. “Christ! Make some noise when you walk or something, dude.”

Nick’s smile was small and a little chiding.

“Sorry.” Sam shifted uncomfortably, realizing he had just blasphemed, quite loudly, in a church. Not that he had ever worried too much about the sorts of things he said, the language he used, especially when he compared his vocabulary to Dean’s.  Sam was an eloquent gentleman by comparison. But Dean wasn’t here and Sam had yelled at a very nice stranger in a church. “Sorry.” He said again sheepishly. “I’m just not good with people sneaking up on me.”

“I’ll try and be loud for you.” His hand was still on Sam’s shoulder, fingers cool through the thin fabric of the tshirt. He let go slowly and held out a thick linen blanket.

Sam swallowed and felt a little nervous when he saw Nick’s eyes follow the bob of his throat. “Thanks again.” He balled the blanket against his chest like he could use it to keep in the odd flutter in his chest. “Hey, you want to stay for a bit?” His mouth was moving, saying all kinds of words that he didn’t intend to say and he couldn’t seem to stop them. “I just- just figure you’re here all by yourself except on Sundays, and maybe you’d like some company.”

He knew he was blushing like an idiot, he could feel it on his neck and cheeks like a sunburn- and maybe he really should leave this kind of thing to Dean. He wasn’t ready for… for whatever it was that his mouth seemed to be offering.

Unfortunately, Nick either didn’t notice Sam’s borderline panic, didn’t care, or found it endearing- because he smiled again and moved to sit on the benches in front of Sam, facing backwards, one knee crooked to his chest.

Silence, peppered by the sound of the rain, fell around them and the longer it stretched the more Sam found himself smiling. It wasn’t that he was particularly comfortable with Nick only a few feet away, chin rested on his knee, watching Sam with those impassive blue eyes of his. In fact, Sam had reached a new and special level of awkward that made something very much like hysteria jumble around in his chest like a trapped animal. He smiled instead because it gave his mouth something to do other than giggle nervously.

“I get thirteen widows and two ex-marines who are as deaf as posts in here every Sunday morning.  Octogenarians don’t make the best company- even if they do have good stories from time to time… when they can remember them.” Nick folded his arms around his knee, running a thumb over his lower lip, showing a flash of teeth. “I haven’t seen anyone other than them in three years.”

A small noise escaped Sam, not really believing what he was hearing. “Really? The whole town’s just right down the road… and how do you get food it you don’t leave?”

“Myrtle brings me groceries once a week, except when she’s got the _vapors_ ,” something like a laugh flicked through his eyes as he put a heavy southern drawl into that one word. “Then Peggy brings me food.” He scratched idly at his jaw and the light bit of stubble. “They’re lovely old broads. Like a flock of grandmothers I never asked for.”

“Why not just go into town yourself?”

Something all together different flicked through Nick’s eyes then, and even if Sam couldn’t name what it was he knew he didn’t like it.  

Instead of answering Nick asked a question of his own. “How is it someone like you left the school dance early and so very alone?”

Sam fiddled with the fringe on the edge of the blanket, watching his own hands because watching Nick play with his lip made his thoughts tangle around themselves. “I told you- we move around a lot. I don’t really have any friends around here- no one to walk home with.”

“Then why go to the dance at all?”

Sam got a little frown, not sure if he ever even mentioned where he had come from. “My brother, Dean, he talked me into going.”

“But not into staying?” Nick just had this way about him, how he talked, so even and slow- curious without feeling intrusive- even though by all rights he was being incredibly so.

“He took off before I did.” Sam said carefully, the first hint of unease settling into the back of his mind- but he tried to convince himself that it was nothing. This was a small town, and apparently the only company Nick had were a heard of old ladies. It was very possible that they had told the man about the dance. Hell, before the storm started, it was possible that Nick could have _heard_ the dance. It’s not like it had been a quiet affair. “Took the head cheerleader and his car and left me to get myself home.”

Nick seemed to consider this before slowly nodding. “You’re the younger brother, aren’t you? I am too- though my brother Michael sounds a bit more tame than yours.”

That inkling of a bad feeling in Sam washed away as he smiled. There was a solidarity held by all younger brothers around the world- a lifetime of long suffering that only they could truly understand.

Nick met his smile for a heartbeat before looking away, just a soft downturn of his gaze, his eyebrows creeping up. “You know, I think one of the main reasons they sent me out here was to keep me away from smiles like yours.”

Sam’s face froze for a second and he swallowed roughly. “What?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” He looked up at Sam from beneath his lashes, a crooked, sharp edge of a smile still on his lips. “Tell us a story, Sam. You look like you’ve got a bunch of good stories in you.”

Sam was sure that the room was sustaining its temperature purely from his blushing alone. “I- I don’t really have any... I don’t like talking about myself.”

“Never said to tell me a story about you.” Nick grasped his own elbows, leaning forward as much as the back of the bench would allow. “Make up something- just make it a good.”

“I-”

“Come on. Sunday’s in two days and I’m going to have to listen to Darryl telling me about the time he was a boy and learned what makes popcorn pop- for the hundredth time.” His smile got caught on the other side of his mouth and it was almost a grin now. “I get bored, Sam.” Nick said his name again, drawing it out just a bit too long, making it more of a sigh than a name, like pleading.

“Well,” his thoughts were already racing. He had roughly a million stories at this point in his life, almost all of them true and not a single one of them believable.  “Alright- but then you have to tell me what makes popcorn pop.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a vague plan when I started this to make it 3 chapters, now I'm thinking 5.  
> This is very quickly getting out of hand.

 

Sam spun a tale of murder and mystery. Of a werewolf hunt out in Tacoma, Washington. Of two brothers who had been left out in their tent alone one summer night while their dad tracked a monster through the woods.

He found himself leaning into Nick, excitement tightening his chest when he spoke of the well meaning older brother had shared a few beers with his kid brother and how the two of them were lit and giggling against each other when the second werewolf came upon them unawares. The younger boy was taken down first and the older brother had been slow on the draw- but still had his wits about him enough to shoot the thing in the spine- sure, it obliterated the monster, but a shotgun blast at that close range, with it on top of his little brother…  That wide eyed, half drunk kid had been scattered with blood, bone, and buck shot.

He was surprised at how even he was able to keep his voice,  only the smallest hint of a wobble when he talked about the young boy laying in the dirt while his older brother held a jacket to his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Did he die?” Nick’s eyes were bright under the electric lights. He had shifted to rest his chin on his forearms, peering up at Sam like he was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“No.” Sam resisted the urge to rub the slick scattering of scars like liquid silver than ran over his right shoulder and down his ribs. If Dean had used anything with a higher caliber bullet it would have gone straight through the werewolf and kept going on through Sam and into the ground. Lucky for Sam, his brother had grabbed the sawed off shotgun which had a spectacular scatter shot and it wasn’t one solid lump of lead that cut through Sam, but about a hundred bits of hot metal and bone dug into him like a meteor shower.

“Their dad heard the gunshot and came back. He got there about the same time the big brother was sewing the little one up with dental floss and a darning needle.” It was only one story- one of about a million that Sam had that ended in Dean huddled over him, keeping him safe from the darkness and all the horrors that it held. He wasn’t always bleeding in these stories, in fact, this was one of the few times he had gotten really hurt- but it had been a spectacular injury. John had been furious with Dean, livid with Sam.

“Did the kid turn into a werewolf afterwards?”

“What?” Sam blinked, startled by the idea.

“He got the werewolf’s blood on him- in him, didn’t he?”

“That’s not how it works.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s got to be transferred through the wolf’s bite. There were all kinds of claws and blood- but no bite.” He did touch his shoulder then, absently rubbing at the scar tissue he could just barely feel through his sleeve.

“That’s a stupid ending.” Nick sat back, looking down his nose at Sam with a disapproving cast to his brow. “Next time, have him get turned.”

Sam laughed loudly at the idea that history could so easily be rewritten for the worst. “Yeah, ok then.”  He slid down the bench, a few inches to his left so that he could lean forward, resting his arms on the back of Nick’s bench, their elbows almost touching. Almost.

Nick’s eyes were still fever bright, the ice in them glinting like glass. He was leaning into Sam’s laughter like he could feel it against his skin, glorious and as warm as the sun. He was basking in that laughter, a hint of color high on his cheeks.

“So,” Sam needed to say something before he inched closer and touched the other man. “Popcorn?”

He huffed softly, a laugh that hadn’t been given enough breath. “There’s a little bit of moisture in each kernel, when it heats it expands, turns to steam. The steam needs somewhere to go and _pop_.” He stretched all his fingers out wide for emphasis.

“That’s a stupid ending.” Sam tried to hold back a grin. “Next time have it turn into a werewolf.”

Nick’s laugh was a rough little snort and he closed his eyes for a moment, little crow’s feet wrinkles forming- and Sam immediately added a handful of years to his estimated age. And they weren’t bad years, not if they were the kind that only came out when the man laughed. Sam’s heart fluttered just a little- like a miniature heart attack.

It wasn’t love at first sight or anything even half as brainless or sentimental. Sam was young, but he had never been stupid. This was more like what Dean called ‘lust at first sight’- and Sam knew he had it _bad_. He tried to tell himself that Nick was a boy- hell, screw that. Nick was a MAN. And not the beautiful kind that some girls seemed to like, because maybe somehow that would make it less weird. No, Nick was like eight kinds of masculine and apparently that didn’t make a bit of difference to Sam’s libido.

“Your turn.” He managed to get out in place of the words that he wanted to. Because ‘I want to lick you’ would inevitably get him in some kind of trouble that he wasn’t sure he could handle.

“My turn?” Nick was smiling easer now, the curve of his lips never dropping below half mast. “I just told you about the pop corn.” He rested his chin back on the lovingly inked curve of his arms, tilting his head towards Sam.

“That was a lame ass story.” He borrowed one of Dean’s turn of phrase and liked how it felt.

“You want a different one, Sam?”

He thought he managed to nod.

“One about werewolves?”

“What?” Sam huffed on a startled laugh. “No. What’s with you and werewolves?”

“You started it.” He gently butted an elbow into Sam’s, his oddly cool skin nice and sold and pleasant. “How about… yeah.” His eyes drifted half closed. “I think I can manage a story.”

And he did more than manage. Nick had the kind of voice that was beyond perfect for telling stories. His beautiful baritone told of a group of scientists down in Antarctica who got cut off from all outside communications during a storm. Nick spoke of cabin fever and isolation, soft and certain like he knew without a doubt what it could do to a man.

Sam believed him.

Then Nick told of the men dying off, one by one by one. He got a wicked little glint to his eyes when he told of the suspicion of the men, because they all knew it was one of them who was killing the others.

Sam hadn’t really been expecting a horror story- though he supposed it was only fair because it fit the same mood as Sam’s story.  Well, up until the point that Nick talked about the alien who had slipped into the compound and was taking the shape of the men- murdering them just for kicks.

“Wait-” He stopped Nick mid sentence, just when the hero of the story was trying to test the blood of the other scientists to discover which one of them was not human. “I’ve seen this movie.”

Nick rolled his eyes just a fraction. “You want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Then don’t interrupt.” He pushed gently against Sam again and didn’t pull back this time, the little contact between them simple but significant. He resumed his story, voice rising and falling with the wind outside.

Even knowing how it was going to end, Sam found himself hanging on the words, holding his breath. Part of him was painfully aware that it had little to do with the actual story and much to do with the fact that Nick was touching him.

“And MacReady looked at Nauls, the blaze behind them casting the other man’s face into impossibly dark shadow. He knew he couldn’t trust him- how could he? After all that had happened... Nauls might not be himself. But he knew, as the fire already started to die, twisting and shriveling in the cold wind- he knew that neither of them would be leaving alive.” Nick moved slowly, reaching out to Sam, carefully brushing some of his hair from his eyes. He dropped his hand, folding his arms more loosely than before. “So maybe it didn’t matter who he was anymore.”

Sam said nothing. He couldn’t really remember how to talk. It wasn’t the story itself- he had seen the movie _The Thing_ a handful of times and he knew that it ended with the two former friends sitting beside the pyre, neither trusting the other, but too tired to care, accepting their deaths. No. It wasn’t the story.

It was Nick.

It was _all_ Nick and his heavy hand and his too close proximity. Sam could feel the other man’s breath on his face, on his mouth.

It felt a little bit like he was dying. Each breath ghosting over him was going to be the last. He closed his eyes, fighting down the rolling, wild feeling that had crashed over him with that single touch.

Maybe it wasn’t like dying, maybe that was too dramatic a description- but his stomach was in knots, his skin prickling. With his eyes closed he could pretend that he was still in charge of his emotions, of the riot that had broken out in his chest. It was a battle, a real war going on and Sam was losing. Losing against what his body wanted. He tried to tell himself that the curl of desire, of simple unrefined _want_ he felt was something that he could just push away.

He was logical. Rational. Strong.

Master of his own destiny.

Not attracted to the nice man who had let him in from the rain.

The very nice man who was touching him again, steady hand brushing hair from off his forehead. Dean had been after Sam for months to get his hair cut. Sam was glad that he hadn’t.

“You fall asleep on me, Sam?”

He didn’t want to open his eyes, but he did, peering up at Nick, whose hand was still in his hair, far too intimate for the relative strangers that they were.

“Yeah, I…” He was blushing harder than that time he had been brave enough to kiss a girl named Helen out in California two years ago and Dean had caught him. “I mean _no_.” He sat up, pulling away from Nick, heart rabbiting against his ribs.

Nick let his hand drop, arm dangling loose. There was a little nautical star on the triangle of skin between his thumb and first finger. Nicks eyes were soft, the line of his mouth had turned down to an uncertain angle. He licked his lips, a quick flash of tongue and teeth. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

Sam saw a window of chance and he saw it closing so very fast. “What about a goodnight kiss?”

Nick had been half way off his bench, but he stopped- going perfectly still. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” And he must have been channeling Dean. He had to be. This wasn’t Sam. Sam didn’t proposition hansom strangers in the middle of the night… honestly, Dean probably didn’t either. But he had that unflappable confidence that his baby brother had always envied, and Sam was pulling on memories, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing.

Nick let out a long breath, straightening so that he loomed over Sam. He toyed with his lower lip, face carefully neutral.  “You’re serious.” He didn’t ask.

Sam was fairly surprised that he hadn’t gotten woozy or passed out due to the sheer amount of blood rushing to his head. He felt hot. Hot in bad ways... hot in good ways. Mostly in confusing ways. _What was he doing?_

“You don’t have to.” His borrowed confidence was waning, fast as water running through cracks. “I… never mind.” He looked down at his hands, long fingers curling and uncurling, dirt beneath his nails. And he wondered what on god’s green earth was wrong with him. “Goodnight, Nick.” He nodded towards the still folded blanket. “Thanks for the place to hide.”

He looked up, eyes perhaps a little wide because Nick was quite a bit closer than Sam had thought he was. The man was far too quiet for his own good. Like a ghost standing beside him.

 “What a peculiar thing you are.” Nick said like a complement as he reached out, hand almost landing on Sam’s shoulder, but slipping further, holding the back of the bench. Sam could see the words on his arm clearly for the first time. ‘ _No one gives us the right- We take it’_

And Sam was touching Nick’s arm before he realized his hand had even moved, fingers running over the flowing script, following the lines like brail. “What-”

“No. I’ve already told two stories for your one.” His hand left the bench and caught the back of Sam’s head, cold fingers carding through his hair, tightening. He closed the distance between them slowly, giving Sam all the time in the world to come to terms with what was about to happen.

 “Goodnight, Sam.” Nick whispered against his mouth, soft as a prayer.

To his everlasting shame, Sam was the one who whimpered and destroyed that fraction of an inch between them, pressing into Nick in a rough, desperate sort of kiss.

But Nick kissed back, so maybe it wasn’t the end of the world, despite how it felt.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An old writing trick I learned back in college was to read things out loud- it helps you find typos and weird little syntax errors you might not have noticed otherwise.  
> So I have to wait til I can find a time between work and the roommates leaving to sit myself down and basically read inappropriate stories to myself and my cat.  
> It's impressively embarrassing.  
> I highly recommend it.

Nick knelt on the floor between Sam’s knees, and distantly Sam thought it might be because it made the man marginally less intimidating. But that was only running in the most remote parts of his mind, because they were still kissing and that was far more important.

So much more important.

Not even funny just how important that was to Sam right then.

Nick’s mouth was soft against his, no urgency, no demands, just curious and slow, hand still tangled in his too long hair.

And Sam was still holding Nick’s arm, which wasn’t romantic, or suave or anything shy of regular clumsy old Sam. He just didn’t know what to do with his hands. What the hell do you do with your hands when someone is kissing you?

A few centimeters formed between their lips, just enough room to let an angel pass, and when Sam opened his eyes to look at the other man all he could see was blue.

“I’m not complaining-“ Nick said in his very soft way, “but this is not at all how I thought I’d be spending my night.”

“Me either?” Sam wasn’t sure if the blonde counted this as a good thing or a bad thing.

“To be fair, the second I opened the door and saw you sitting there I knew I was in trouble.” He sat back on his heels and looked up at Sam, slowly licking his lips like he was savoring the taste. “I should have left you outside.” He said after a moment’s thought.

Sam was almost sure that Nick was joking, but without a smile it was hard to tell. “I might have drowned.” He pointed out. “Besides, didn’t you get some religious training? Don’t you have to take oaths or something?”

“Oaths?” A hint of amusement tugged at his voice.

“To protect and serve?” Sam was sure that was a thing.

“That’s the police.” His eyes were crinkling on the edges.

“Do no harm?” Sam offered hopefully.

“I think that’s doctors.” He was slowly scratching the back of Sam’s head, lazy unconscious movements.

“Audaces fortuna iuvat?” Sam felt his mouth taking the shape of a lopsided grin as the words rolled off his tongue.

“Latin?” Nick raised a brow, surprise evident. “Fortune favors the bold?” And he chuckled. “Doesn’t sound like much of a religious oath.”

“Semper fidelis tyrannosaurus?” He tried his best not to laugh, but Nick was still so close, the sides of his ribs solid and lewd feeling between his skinny legs. Sam was positively giddy with indecent thoughts.

Nick laughed far too loud for a church. “Yes. You got me.” His lips met Sam’s in a quick, almost chaste kiss. “How did you know?”

“I don’t want to brag- but I’m pretty damn smart.”

“Not smart enough to avoid ending up here.” Nick was smiling openly now, the blue of his eyes dark as the sky before a storm.

Sam shrugged just a little, because honestly, these last few minutes were probably the best thing that had happened to him in about five years. He didn’t care if he had gotten his dumb self lost out in the bayou.

He carefully let go of Nick’s arm, hesitantly resting both hands against the man’s chest. “I’m glad I did.” That wasn’t too hokey, right? It sounded lame to his ears and he blushed a bit darker -if that was possible.

“Sam?” Nick’s chest rose and fell beneath Sam’s hands and he leaned in to kiss him once more, slower this time, but just as careful. He didn’t even give Sam a chance to ask ‘what’. Two more kisses, the last one ending with a promise of teeth. “Sam?”

And Sam managed a graceful noise that was mostly vowels.

“Goodnight.” His hand was cool on the side of Sam’s neck, holding him there, or maybe he was just enjoying the wildly jumping pulse against his fingers.

“No.” Sam managed, tightening his hold on Nick, fingers curling in his tshirt. He sounded oddly forceful and by the tilt of the other man’s eyebrows it was obvious that he had surprised them both.

“I’ve already got a criminal record.” He was watching Sam’s mouth while he spoke, an odd little smile still on his face. “I really don’t need to add soliciting sex from a minor.”

_Sex_? Sam swallowed loudly and instead of saying that that wasn’t what he was hoping for, his traitorous mouth formed the words: “I’m eighteen.”

And Nick laughed like that was a particularly good joke.

“I am. I had my birthday on the second.”

“You’re a liar is what you are.” But he was grinning at Sam. “You’re fucking gorgeous- but you’re still a liar.”

Sam laughed in surprise, because he hadn’t expected words like that to come from the other man.

His hand came up to cup the other side of Sam’s face, his fingers oddly calloused for a man who lived and worked in a church. But Sam didn’t have a lot of time to think about that because Nick was licking his way into his mouth, just as slow and curious as each kiss before. Maybe his skin was cold- but his mouth was hot. Hot as a fever. Hot as every wet dream Sam had had up until this point.

 He had only tongue kissed a girl once before, sometime between right now and last New Years, and he couldn’t remember her name just now because someone was biting his lower lip and Sam’s brain short circuited.

Nick was much better at this than what’s-her-face had been… but then again Nick had had a few more years to practice, which he had obviously taken advantage of. His mouth was perfect against Sam’s. They fit together like they had been made for each other, or maybe that was just the weirdly sentimental part of Sam’s mind that was trying to make this into something more romantic and meaningful than it really was.

This wasn’t romantic. It was grossly inappropriate, but it wasn’t romantic. And even that thought was not enough to keep Sam from hooking his ankles behind Nick’s back and sliding his too long arms around the other man’s broad shoulders.

Nick took a sharp breath and pulled back, not far, just enough to turn his face away, grinning wildly into Sam’s shoulder, mouth wet against the fabric. “Have you ever had to stop yourself in the middle of something because you just realized you were going to hell?”

Sam made a weak noise, surprised he could manage that much. The prickling heat that had been pooling low in his gut was pressed hard against the furthest arch of Nick’s ribs, the littlest, maddening bit of friction in his jeans with each quick breath the other man let past his lips.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Sammy. No sympathy for the devil. I’ve known for a long time now.” He bit the side of Sam’s neck, the movement far more possessive and rough than everyone leading up to it. “It just really hit home right now.”

It took roughly an eternity for Sam’s brain to get the words he wanted all the way to his mouth. “You didn’t strike me as the kind of church guy who thinks homosexuality is a sin.” He could still form whole sentences- and that in and of itself was astounding considering  that Nick was sucking a bruise right along his carotid artery, rolling waves of anticipation through him with each flick of tongue and cut of teeth.

Nick chuckled weakly, the sound crawling over Sam and his hypersensitive skin, raising goose bumps and making his jeans all the more tight.

“Oh, I never got on that particular train.” He shifted against Sam, pushing against him like he knew exactly what he was doing. “God said to love your neighbor. I’ve always tried to make a point to follow that one.” One of his hands had slid from Sam’s face, trailing down over his chest, rubbing almost negligently against one nipple, making Sam gasp and swear under his breath. “And I feel it’s as important to let your neighbor love you back. Don’t you think so, Sam?”

“Hng.” He said low in his throat in the most articulate of ways.

“I just mean… in a church and all- this is probably one of the most fantastically wrong things I’ve managed in my life so far.” He kissed Sam lightly, the softest brush of lips, almost like it never happened. “And if you knew me, you would know what an accomplishment this really is.”

And Sam remembered that Nick had been sent out here to stay out of trouble. Whoever had left him here had obviously not bargained on Sam Winchester showing up. But what was that saying that it’s ‘always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for’?

“Once more, Sam.” Nick managed to miss, kissing the side of Sam’s mouth. “This time with feeling.” He got the other side for good measure. “Goodnight.”

Sam was strong- surprisingly strong for someone his age, but Nick was stronger, which was wholly unfair. He untangled himself from the youngest Winchester, like it was nothing, and he stood. This put his hip right next to Sam’s mouth and for a chaotic second he thought of what he could do to those hips- but Nick had already left the isle and managed to get himself safely to the doorway.

Sam didn’t say anything. He had lost all of his words, which was something that had never happened before and would have shocked Dean to the core if he had been there to witness it.

“If you don’t take off as soon as the rain lets up, I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.” Nick was already gone from sight, disappearing down the turn of the hall, his voice coming back to Sam sounding hollow.

And Sam considered following after him- but he had already been told no twice, and he had a feeling that the third time would not be ‘the charm’ in this instance. Instead he did the only thing that he could do. He unbuttoned his jeans and took care of the ache he felt, not bothering to keep his voice down. The acoustics of the chapel made it sound more amazing than it felt, his pants and moans echoing in perfection. It was a beautiful blasphemy to be sure, but Sam had never been much of a church goer and the guilt settled as only a minor weight in his chest as he lay down on his side, head pillowed on his folded arms and the white blanket that smelled just like Nick had tasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this one I think.  
> Take it all in while you can.
> 
> I might be asking for prompts/requests after this is done. I want to write more for this ship, but don't have any ideas yet. Let me know if you've got a hankering for something special.
> 
> Also, in case you were curious, 'semper fidelis tyrannosaurus' translates to 'always faithful, terrible lizard'


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what's better than one really long final chapter?  
> Two smaller chapters  
> I know that this story is stretching out indefinitely- but I promise I will find the end of it soon.
> 
>  
> 
> soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I have already written 3 different endings, but I can't commit to one of them.  
> I guess it means that I need to write 2 more stories to go with all the endings I made.  
> this is quite possibly the wrongest way to go about writing anything.

 

Sam had these dreams sometimes.

He never told his dad about them because he knew that John wouldn’t put any weight into the lucid dreams of his youngest son. He knew because he _used_ to tell John. Used to tell him of the weirdly specific dreams he would have of places that he had never seen, of people he had never met.

The dreams had never seemed all that important to him- not until he found himself standing awake in those places, until he met those people for the second time.

It was the worst kind of déjà vu.

And his dad chose to write it off.

But not Dean. Dean would listen to his kid brother with every bit of seriousness that he could muster. He believed that Sam’s dreams meant something, even if Sam could hardly remember them after waking. They decayed too quickly, coming undone and lost as the morning marched on.

Waking on the church pew, the wood solid and unyielding beneath his back was considerably less comfortable than waking in the backseat of the Impala. He lay there with his eyes closed, ignoring the stiffness in his hips and shoulders. His young body was resilient and the aches would work themselves out as soon as he got up and started moving around.

He had dreamed again last night, one of those dreams that felt all too real even as the memory faded like something that had happened to him years ago instead of just minutes.

There had been a hallway, dusty and quiet as a tomb. Sam’s feet had made dark prints in the dust. At the end of the hall had been a kitchen, small and rustic and just as undisturbed as the hall that lead to it. He knew the kitchen, recognized it as where he had sat last night. It was just as he had left it, except there was only one glass on the table now. He saw marks in the dust where his hands had been, his barefoot prints under the lone chare.

There were no signs of Nick in the room. No second glass. No footprints other than Sam’s.

In his dream he wandered the halls of the church, maybe hundreds of halls. More halls than any church in the history of churches had ever had. All he found were his own footprints and with each step he felt more and more alone.

The feeling was still there when he woke, and Sam didn’t know how much of it was left over from his dream and how much had to do with the way his breaths echoed off the high ceiling.

He managed to sit up, slowly slitting his eyes against the kaleidoscope of colors coming through the stain glass above the alter. The smell of dust and damp was heavy in the air, but the rain had stopped and the sunlight did something to settle the bad feeling that had taken up residence in Sam’s chest.

Nick had made a promise of breakfast and a very large part of Sam wanted to take him up on it. Or maybe just wanted to go to the other end of the little church and crawl into bed with the other man. Maybe his dream had started to fade, but his memory from the night before was still fresh. He touched his neck, wondering if Nick’s mouth had left any marks there. He hoped that there were at the same time he prayed that there weren’t. Dean would have a right proper freak out if Sam came home with a hickey.

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t want Sam getting some action- he was always steering Sam towards one girl or another. But if Dean knew the circumstances, knew that a handsome man had spent some quality time necking with Sam, he would have some things to say. And Sam knew that he would have a hard time keeping that fact from his brother. Dean had a way of wheedling information out of Sam.

In his mind he was already building a lie to tell when he got home.

He just hoped it would be believable enough.

He carefully folded the blanket Nick had given him before tucking it under arm and walking to the kitchen. It looked just as it had the night before- except the overhead light and fan were off and now sunlight streamed in to pool in heavy puddles around the room, leaving deep pockets of shadow. Last night the room had seemed cozy, but then again, last night Sam had spent very little time looking at the room. Nick had been _far_ more interesting. Now it looked more like the heart of an abandoned building than a church’s kitchen.

The table had only one glass on it, a lonely centerpiece.

Sam stayed in the doorway, holding the blanket to his chest. Echoes of his dream ran through his mind, of the dust and the hallways. Of the great and glairing nothing that he had found.

He knew it was just a dream, but it had been one of those kinds of dreams that came with a headache and an unyielding feeling of dread.

Sam tried to choke down that feeling, because he knew that in all actuality he could walk himself down the hall and easily find Nick’s room. Easily find Nick- it wasn’t like it was a big church. He could probably even sweet talk the nice man into at least one kiss before he made his way back home to Dean. And oh, what a kiss it would be.

However, Sam didn’t know what he would do if he walked down that hall and found himself leaving footprints in the dust- if that was all he found. There were still enough fragments of his dream skittering about in his mind, enough that he couldn’t bring himself to turn down the hall.

He gritted his teeth, because a dream was still just a dream, and Sam could see Nick’s glass on the counter beside the broken clock. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he knew he wasn’t alone here. It was a subtle feeling, one you deep in your gut before you had any proof.  It was intuition more than knowledge. It was the kind of inkling that kept you safe in abandoned houses or dark alleys- other times, like this one, it came as a comfort. It meant that Sam’s weird dream had been something for him to decode later and not an actual premonition of sorts.

Both flavors of dreams seemed to happen in equal amounts and it was good to know it had been the former rather than the later. Except he had no idea what a dream like that was supposed to mean and he had a feeling that all the finer points of it would be long gone before he had a chance to make sense of it.

He pushed those thoughts aside, because he knew that he wasn’t alone and he knew just as well that he had little time to get home before Dean noticed he was gone- if he hadn’t already. It gave him a very small window to turn down breakfast and still tell Nick that he was grateful for a dry place to sleep.

There was a pad of paper stuck to the fridge with a little cross shaped magnet. Sam had to dig in a drawer for a pen and he scribbled a note in his too crowded handwriting.

His muddy boots were beside the door, right where he left them, along with his still damp pile of clothes. And it wasn’t like they could have hung them up on a line last night to dry, not with the rain coming down like it was. Sam couldn’t talk himself into putting back on the wet clothes, so he tucked them under his arm and left behind the borrowed blanket.

Dean was still sleeping when Sam came home, sprawled out on his sleeping bag in just his boxers and a lone sock. He was, after all, the more graceful of the two of them.

Walking as quietly as he could, Sam managed to make it all the way to the edge of the living room, right before the turn of the hallway and the room that he had claimed as his own before Dean grumbled ‘goodmrrng’.

“ ‘morning.” Sam tried for casual, glancing over his shoulder and was relieved to see that Dean hadn’t even opened his eyes yet. There was still a good chance that his big brother hadn’t figured out that Sam was coming rather than going.

“Sleep alright?”

“Yeah.” He moved further down the hall, away from his brother’s line of sight should he bother to open his eyes. “How ‘bout you?”

“I slept like a baby. That girl… Violet, Viola… Vivian? Whatever- She had legs for days and an ass so fine you could bounce a dime off it and get back two nickels.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard enough that he was worried he might strain something. “Super classy, Dean.”

“Aw, don’t be jealous, Sammy.” And Dean groaned and yawned in the other room. “You gunna make us breakfast?”

“You want toast?” He was slipping out of Nick’s jeans and pulling on a pair of sweats, all while running through a mental catalog of their kitchen. They had bread, maybe some peanut butter left. John needed to get back soon. The money he left them with had run out three days ago and Dean would probably be out tonight hustle pool so they could afford to eat tomorrow.

“Hell yeah. Toast.” There was no enthusiasm whatsoever to Dean’s words. They had only had toast since the money ran out.

Sam padded out to the kitchen and tossed the last three pieces of bread into the little gas stove before lighting the pilot with a match.

It wasn’t long before Dean joined him, yawning and scratching his bare stomach. “You have fun last night?”

“Yes.” He answered a little too quickly, hand immediately going to his neck.

Luckily, Dean didn’t notice, standing where the fridge should have been, stretching up to touch the cabinets overhead. “Good. You should have fun. You’re too serious.”

Sam fished the bits of toast out with a fork and tossed them on the counter before smearing one with peanut butter and shoving the other two pieces towards Dean.

Dean took one and pushed the other one back to his kid brother. He knew that this was the last of their food and this was his quiet way of saying that Sam needed it more. Sam was supposedly still growing and needed all the toast he could get.

“I’ll see if I can scrape up some money tonight.” He promised around a crunchy mouthful of toast. “Heeey, now.” He got one of his lopsided smiles and jabbed the side of Sam’s neck with a finger. “You make a new friend last night?”

“Mmhm.” He turned away to put away the jar of peanut butter and to hide the sudden heat he felt on his cheeks.

“Way to go, Sammy.” Dean made a sound that was closer to a cackle than a laugh. “How far did ya’ get?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He took his two pieces of toast and made a break for it.

“You get to second base?” Dean followed, close on his heels like an excited puppy. Way too thrilled that his brother might have copped a feel.

“I’ve got homework to do.”

“Was she one of those uncomfortably awkward yet sexy girls on the chess team?”

“What?” Sam glanced back at Dean and was startled at how close he had gotten.

“I’m sure they exist.” He was grinning openly now, leaning on Sam’s doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, trapping Sam in his room without means of escape. “So… what was her name?”

Sam just stared blankly at his brother, trying to keep anything incriminating from showing on his face.

“Come on, there’s no way _you_ made out with a girl and didn’t get her name first.”

Sam calmly opened his backpack and his biology book, avoiding eye contact like he was getting paid to do it.

“You’re no fun.” Dean announced with a broad sweeping gesture of his arm. He didn’t leave right away. He just stood there while Sam sat on the floor and started his homework. “She was blonde, wasn’t she?”

Sam lifted his pencil and looked very hard at his textbook.

“Yeah she was.” Dean was still grinning. Sam didn’t even need to see his brother to know. He could hear the smugness in his voice. “You’ve got a thing for blondes.”

He wanted to yell that he didn’t, that he had no inclinations towards blondes, but it wouldn’t make Dean any less right. Damn Dean and his high levels of observation. Damn them both and their inappropriate codependency. 

“And she must have been the one to go after you, because you’re too damn awkward to start anything.” Dean spoke slow and thoughtful, like putting together the pieces of a puzzle. “So, she was probably older than you… dude, was it a teacher?”

Sam finally looked up, exasperated. “I’ve really got to finish this homework.” Denial and avoidance was much easier than lying.

“It’s Saturday, you’ve got all weekend to finish that crap.” He scratched at his neck. “What was her name?”

“Homework.” He attempted to put all his petulant teenage anger into that singular word, but it sounded more like pleading to his own ears.

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. “You’d at least tell me if she popped your cherry, right?”

“Dean!”

“It’s got’ta happen sometime, Sammy. And when it does you’re gunna wonder why you took so long getting to it.” Dean occasionally felt a need to share what he considered words of wisdom.

Sam didn’t know what to say, so he sat there with his uncomfortable blush and the hardest glare he could manage.

“You’ll get it next time, kid.” He leaned over and ran a hand through Sam’s hair, ruffling it, making it stand on end.

“ ‘m not a kid anymore.” He was taller than Dean, for pity sake. When did he get to be an adult?

“Sure, sure.” But he didn’t mean it. Sam would always been his little brother, regardless of how tall or old he got.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me sing you the song of my people, it's called 'One Chapter Left, This Time I promise'  
> You might recognize it, I've sung it to you many times before.
> 
> I am made of lies

 

 

Dean left a little after that to go cheat his way to a full wallet. It gave Sam the privacy and freedom to take Nick back his clothes. It wouldn’t be a far walk, and he knew he would be back before Dean came home. He got as far as the end of the weed strewn driveway before he saw his dad slowly walking towards him.

The man had been gone for weeks, and this is when he chose to show up?

There was no justice in the world.

None at all.

“Where you going, Sammy? Where’s your brother?” The tired looking man shouldered his hunting bag, worn handle of his rifle peeking up behind his head. His clothes were dirty, dusty from the road, red clay on his boots, dark sweat marks under his arms and around his neck. It was already far too hot out.

“It’s _Sam_ , Dad.” He got tired of repeating himself.

A weary look passed over John and he nodded before ruffling Sam’s hair just as Dean had a few hours ago. Except when his brother did it- it felt like affection. When John touched him it just made him angry.

It had been like that for a handful of years now.

Sam was only really happy when his dad was gone.

It didn’t bode well for their future together as a family.

“We used up the money you left. Dean went to get more.”

Nodding again, John started back towards the house. “Meant to be back last week.” He said in place of an apology. “Damned witchbird wouldn’t stay dead.”

Sam watched his dad’s broad back and knew that if he was going to get to the church he needed to wait for John to go to sleep. John wasn’t the kind of dad who let his youngest son wander off into the woods. Oh, sure- John could do it anytime he wanted to- but not Sam.

There were probably good reasons for this, but none of them seemed even halfway fair to him.

He walked with his dad back to the house, helped his him shrug off his backpack and settle down onto Dean’s sleeping bag.

Even if he didn’t mention it, John _was_ hurt. Sam could see all the signs, and honestly, he would have been more surprised if John had come home in one piece. Jacket torn and stained dark on his left shoulder. Knuckles raw. Hair matted and stiff over his right temple.

The first aid kit was in Dean’s bag on account of it was his older brother’s job to play white mage for the family when things went to hell. Sam knew basic triage and everything- mandatory skills needed to survive their lifestyle, but he didn’t have the same kind of manic devotion to the art as Dean.

It was as if Dean had made it his own personal quest to keep his dad and kid brother alive and in one piece. And to his credit, so far he had done a decent job of it.

 Starting with the scabbed over head wound, Sam began patching up his dad. He never really wanted to play medic- but John was falling asleep where he sat and couldn’t do it himself. Every so often his eyes would open, accompanied by a small hiss of breath, as Sam prodded each scrape and cut with iodine soaked cotton balls.

They didn’t talk, which was for the best. Sam had nothing friendly to say to his Dad.

 Half an hour later he left his dad snoring away like a bear and shuffled out of the house, double time. The church was right where he left it, tucked back at the end of a little dirt road, sheltered by cypress trees, hedged on two sides by the swamp. Looking at it now, in the full light of day, it was a wonder that he had come across it last night. It was completely hidden up until that last turn in the road, and even now it did a good job blending in with the old, pale trees. It must have been the lights last night. Calling to him like a lighthouse to a ship… except lighthouses were meant to warn people off- so maybe it had been more like a flame drawing in a moth. Dangerous, beautiful, and unavoidable all the same. Sam had never stood a chance.

He didn’t have to look hard to find Nick. The man was stretched out on a wooden slatted lawn chair, sunning himself while he read a tattered paperback with yellow, dog-eared pages and no cover. The blonde looked up before Sam had even cleared half the distance between them. Nick’s clear eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he smiled.

“Well, I do declare.” He said with a sarcastically thick southern drawl. “Hi, stranger.” He switched easily back to his comfortably bland implacable accent. “I didn’t honestly expect to see you again.”

“I left a note.” Sam said a little defensibly, shyness creeping into the corners of his voice.

“Lots of guys leave notes.” He laid his book open on his stomach, reclining comfortably like he did this kind of thing every afternoon. “Doesn’t mean that they actually plan on coming back.”

 _Lots of guys?_ Sam didn’t know if he should worry about that word choice- or just write it off.

“I brought back your clothes.” He kind of shuffled the little armful, stopping just short of the lawn chair and the man stretched out like an offering. Nick’s hair was pale gold in the sunlight, his eyes deep blue and shining with amusement. Sam found that he couldn’t manage to look anywhere else, but at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. Instead he shifted his weight from foot to foot like the shy kid waiting to be picked last for kickball.  “I would have brought them sooner but I had to wait for my brother to leave.”

“You… you didn’t tell your brother that you were coming here?”

Sam found himself frowning just a little.

Nick’s smile curled slowly. “Sam, did you sneak out of the house to go to church?”

“No.” He stiffened just a little.

“Don’t worry about it.” Nick played with his bottom lip, looking thoughtful through his bemused expression. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Sam kind of smiled back and felt heat high on his cheeks. “Thanks.” It wasn’t this awkward last night, but he supposed that some things must come easier in the dark. “I’m just lucky I found you and didn’t fall in the swamp or something instead. Found the _church,_ I mean. Not… yeah.” _Nice save-_ He chided himself. Nick won’t suspect a thing.

Slow and purposefully, the man held out a hand to Sam- and hesitantly Sam handed over the folded stack of clothes that he had carried so long. Part of him didn’t want to give them up. He could just keep them. Keep them until they no longer smelled like Nick.

The man’s laugh was sharp enough to cut- but he took the offering, setting in beside him before holding his hand out once again.

There was this story Sam had read once about an innocent young woman, completely devoid of malice or corruption- who accepted an apple from a snake and subsequently introduced the world to sin. For some reason that Sam couldn’t put words to, that slow curling smile that Nick wore brought the story to mind. But if Nick was the devil offering sin and every perfectly hedonistic temptation in the world- what did that make Sam?

Maybe he should have hesitated a little longer, but as it was, the three seconds that he lingered there, looking at the offered hand, felt like an eternity. Far too long to weigh all the possible consequences. Nowhere near long enough to make a good decision.

His hand fit well in Nick’s. Rough fingers against rough fingers, both far too old and weathered for what they were supposed to be. The wayward son of a priest and a simple highschool student. Sam already knew one of them was lying and to be honest his didn’t give a good god damn if Nick was even telling him half the truth.

The chair wasn’t meant for two people, but Nick seemed to know that beforehand. He didn’t really scoot over for Sam or make any room for him at all. He used their joined hands and the link they now shared to gently turn Sam around, facing him away, out towards the trees, before pulling him down backwards. Luckily Sam’s ass was nearly nonexistent and he fit just fine sideways on the wooden slats, Nick’s hip against the base of his spine.

It wasn’t what he had in mind when he took the other man’s hand and he had no idea what to do when he felt Nick sit up behind him, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. He didn’t feel threatened or anything even remotely close. He just felt lost.

Mary, his mother, had died long before Sam had any chance to make memories of her. He supposed that if she had lived long enough he would have been treated to the bliss that was having his back rubbed. Dean had played overly attached brother/surrogate mother to Sam for like ninety-nine percent of his life- and even then Dean had never just sat and rubbed his back. He gave bone crushing hugs, bracingly painful punches of comradely and an occasional sympathetic arm around the shoulders when necessary. These things were all well and good, but Sam suddenly felt like he had been cheated out of something vital.

Nick’s hands were strong and persuasive, his nails just barely long enough that Sam could feel them through his tshirt every now and then.

Something important needed to be said about getting your back scratched.

But what that something was, Sam couldn’t think of it just then.

It seemed like the kind of time when he should be saying something, maybe asking something- like why the hell Nick was rubbing him down like it was his job. Despite the fact that last night had been far more indecent, right now felt ten times more intimate.

Sam’s head fell forward and he closed his eyes. A slow noise built in the back of his throat, a low groan that he fought down without much success. This went on for an undetermined amount of time. It could have been years and Sam wouldn’t have cared. It was probably only a few minutes.

One of those slow hands pushed the hair up off the back of his neck to be replaced by Nick’s mouth. A soft kiss just a little too high to properly be between his shoulders.  Sam tried to make a noise- instead he managed to breathe a little heavier.

“I had no idea,” Nick said lowly with his lips still against the delicate skin covering Sam’s spine, “that when my brother sent me here- the thing I would miss the most would be this.”

“Massages?” Sam thought he might have managed to ask.

Nick bit him. A quick nip of teeth preceding a laugh. “No.” One arm slid around Sam’s midsection, warm and close and as perfect as if were made to fit right there. “I miss just being able to touch someone else.”

“You’ve got your old ladies.” Sam was so proud that was managing to put words together in the right order.

Nick laughed again and the rich sound rolled over Sam like a dirty though in church. “I’m not the kind of guy who touches his congregation. Inappropriately or otherwise.”

“You save it all up for nice young men who wander by?” He was struggling desperately to hold his own and not just beg Nick to bite him again. Who knew something so violent could feel so good? It was like no one told Sam anything.

“Aw, now you’re just being mean.” He gave Sam a small squeeze. “I promise that you’re my first and only inappropriately under aged young man since I was equally inappropriately under aged. It’s easy to keep to yourself when you’ve been banished to the middle of nowhere.”

“And easy to have everything fall apart at the first opportunity?”

Nick pressed another kiss to the back of his neck. “You will be shocked and horrified at how good I am at keeping myself in line.”

Sam might have giggled, if men in training like himself were capable of giggling. As it was he sort of laughed in a way that was just the slightest bit too high wild.

Another arm snaked around Sam, nearer his hips, fingertips brushing his thigh. Nick took a slow breath against Sam’s skin, taking him in like a drug. His chest was pressed to Sam’s back, angled awkwardly against him.

“Can I keep you?” He whispered so softly that Sam wasn’t sure he had even heard it.

It was a fight to open his eyes, and when he managed all he saw was green. Leaves and grass blurring together in the hazy sunlight. It really was a beautiful day, despite the heat. Hot enough out here that he was sweating without even having to move around. It prickled along his arms, pooled at the base of his spine. His hair was wet with it. He could feel it heavy and curling against his forehead.

“Sam-” Nick ran his lips down the side of Sam’s neck, raising goose bumps despite the heat. “Can I?”

And to his credit Sam managed to make a singular noise that was equal parts noncommittal and confused. He was really proud that he got out that much.

Nick asked a third time, his fingers brushing slowly along Sam’s hip where the gap between his shirt and jeans allowed for such things.

Even after a few tries he couldn’t seem to get his mouth working. There was some weird miscommunication going on between his brain and the part of him that was supposed to make words. But how do you tell a man that you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours that you want him to do vulgar things to you? He didn’t even know if that’s what Nick wanted from him. He had inclinations. He had what he felt was strong evidence- but he was also very new to this whole thing.

“You better head back home before that brother of yours notices that you’re gone.” Nick didn’t sound upset, not even remotely so. He was just calm and even as he slowly let go of Sam and leaned back on his elbows. Casual as all hell.

Sam could see the man from the corner of his eye. His brain was completely incapable of processing what was going on- but he could definitely _see_ it. That had to count for something, right?

“Come back in two days. I’ll get you another lemonade and maybe we can just sit and read for a bit.”

“Two days?” That was almost a whole sentence. Almost. Progress!

“Tomorrow is Sunday and I can’t have you minglin’ with my little old ladies now can I?” Nick smiled as easily as Dean always managed to- and it was just as corrupt and enticing. Or maybe Sam just had an unhealthy fixation on his brother.

“You… you want to read?”

“I saw you checking out my book. It’s Dick.”

“ _What_?” Sam half turned, blinking rapidly. He knew, despite the fact that he was supposed to be the smart one, he was firing on an odd number of cylinders at the moment.

“Philip K. Dick.” Nick got a little grin, a flash of teeth. “ _The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch_ , it’s one of my favorites.” He seemed to be able to read Sam’s slow movements, to understand that he was lost. “Are you more of a Vonnegut fan?”

“I… I like Vonnegut.” He _liked_ the look of Nick’s mouth, the wicked curve of lips that Sam couldn’t quite understand why he wasn’t kissing.

“Yeah. I thought you might.”

Sam took a quavering breath, tongue feeling clumsy against the back of his teeth.

“Monday?” Nick’s eyebrows were high as he lay there, casual and perfect like nothing at all had been going on moments before. Like Sam couldn’t still feel the moist heat of Nick’s mouth against the back of his neck even though that moment had passed.

“M-Monday.” Sam agreed, even though he wasn’t positive that lemonade and old science fiction novels were what he was agreeing to.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to try and pretend that I know how many chapters I have left in this story.   
> Not again.   
> I feel like every time I say 'one more' that I'm jinxing myself into writing more and more increasingly longer chapters.  
> So just take it, and I'm going to go crawl back under my rock and wonder what I'm doing with my life.

 

 

It was Wednesday.

Not four days from when Nick and Sam planned their meeting- not even four years past that ill-fated Monday that never came. It was more like six years and a handful of months. Days and hours and practically a lifetime away from that Monday.

Long enough that Sam couldn’t remember the argument he had had with his dad when he caught Sam sneaking in the house after bringing back Nick’s clothes. Sam hardly remembered what sort of hunt that John demanded that they leave on, or what state that they had to haul ass to ‘tonight, because four women are dead and this thing isn’t going to stop on its own’.

Sam did remember Dean yelling at their dad, arguing on Sam’s behalf (the only time that Dean _ever_ stood up to John)- because there was only two weeks left of school and Sam deserved to finish it up in one place _. Dean would stay with him. They could catch up later. Just this one time._

It’s funny sometimes the things that you _do_ remember after so long.

Years ago Sam had lost Nick’s smell, the exact blue of his eyes, the tattoos on his arms. All he had left was a name and a hazy memory of gentle lips and strong hands- because even after so many years it’s impossible to really forget the first (and only) man that you’ve made out with.

Life didn’t really lend to Sam clinging to that memory anyhow. Dirty thoughts about a man he had never known weren’t really conductive to hunting- just as they hadn’t helped him in law school. Maybe it was easy to forget.

Maybe he had wanted to, at least on some level.

Risking your neck to save others wasn’t an ideal lifestyle to help nourish romantic feelings about handsome men with no last names hiding in the bayous of Alabama. But that was forever ago and a million miles away.

Sam was on the opposite coast now, dragged along in some hell bent road trip with his brother when he should have been at Stanford. He had already missed his finals, so maybe it didn’t matter anymore. He couldn’t just go back and pretend that he hadn’t started hunting again. The only way to go was forward, running from place to place, keeping pace with Dean, searching for a father he never wanted to find.

Now, lots of people romanticized San Francisco- but Sam liked to think that those people had probably never visited. It was an old, rickety city whose buildings seemed under constant threat of sliding down their hills and into the bay. The rich areas were obscenely rich and the poor areas were downright miserable. The whole place smelled like dead fish and piss.

Sam wasn’t a fan.

Neither was Dean.

But they were trailing a string of blood lettings from Crescent City all the way down to Frisco. The working theory was migratory vampires.

It wasn’t a great theory, but it’s all they had so far.

That, and coffee.

They had coffee.

Rain was coming down in a steady, icy drizzle- which was another reason why Sam hated this city. It was _always_ raining here. The morning coffee in their tall white disposable cups were the only things that seemed to cut through the chill.

Dean was leaning up against the glass windows, looking at the grey street and the Impala parked on a dangerous angle half a block away. “You wanna make a break for it, or wait to see if it lets up?”

Sam rolled his cup of coffee between his hands, the heat coming through the cup and lightly scalding his palms. “Let’s wait a bit. I need to defrost before we go back out.”

The coffee shop had those overly tall tables with bar stools that normal sized people had to hop up into. Sam folded himself into one of the ‘tall’ chairs and waited for his brother to join him.

Sitting across from him, Dean looked like hell. They hadn’t been able to find a motel in the city limits with any vacancy- at least not one in their price range- and they had opted to just sleep in the car the night before.

Dean was a raccoon in need of a shave. His eyes bruised and tired, his mouth in a downward, angry line as he sipped his coffee. “I hope the trail takes us to L.A. next.” He stuck out his tongue just a fraction and Sam knew that it must have been burnt on his overheated coffee, black, two sugars. “Or Vegas.”

“I hope we kill it.” Sam mumbled and frowned, because it would be much better to simply stop finding bodies torn up and drained of blood, than to follow the _thing_ to warmer climates.

“Dude-” Dean said, dragging the word out, grinning in that way he did when Sam knew he wasn’t going to like what came next. “Guy over in the corner is totally checking me out.”

“You sound _way_ too happy about that.” Sam didn’t even look over to confirm his brother’s suspicions, because this was San Francisco and in this city Dean got as many ‘how you doin’ smiles and phone numbers from guys as he did from girls.

“ ‘m just sayin’s all.” He glanced sideways before looking back at Sam and sipping his coffee in the loudest way possible. “Man just knows a good thing when he sees it.”

“There is something very wrong with you.” Sam whispered like a secret.

Dean just grinned, all teeth and no offence.

They sat in comfortably fraternal silence, the rain on them drying, warming up inside and out. Dean wasn’t much of a morning person, especially when he had only gotten a handful of hours of sleep the night before, slumped against the driver’s side window. So Sam would let his brother get lost in his coffee, collect his thoughts- even if those thoughts might have encompassed the dude in the corner ‘checking him out’.

Despite so much time together, there were still odd little things about Dean that Sam could never manage to make sense of. His weird, overly masculine tendencies were in complete defiance of the way that he just rolled with the idea of men being interested in him. As if it was normal. As if it was expected.

As far as Sam knew, Dean had never acted on those interests- but even he had, Sam would have been a hypocrite to think worse of him for it.

Dean’s sleep darkened eyes darted sideways again and he got a curling little smile.

Out of curiosity more than anything else, Sam pretended to stretch in his chair, twisting as an excuse to sneak a peek at the man that Dean was _not_ making eyes at.

The coffee shop was too crowded for it being so late in the morning, the office workers should all be at their menial jobs in their glass and steel buildings- but all of San Francisco was crowded. All the time. Why should this little building be any different?

People bustled, waiting impatiently in line to order, waiting in mass at the counter to pick up their orders. There were even a cluster of women in expensive looking shoes holding miniature doges under their arms like footballs, texting and chattering all at the same time. But there was no man. At least not one that Sam thought to be a likely suspect, not one he could see from where he sat.

“Aw, don’t get jealous, Sammy. You know I’ve only got eyes for you.” Dean lightly kicked him under the table and Sam immediately looked at him, debating if kicking his brother back would be too childish. That had never really stopped him before.

So they kicked at each other until they got a little too violent and jostled the table hard enough to almost spill Sam’s coffee.

“Hey, watch it.” He lifted his cup high, trying to keep it safe. “You win, you win.”

“That’s right I do.” Dean tipped his own cup at Sam in cheers. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.” Sam said like a reflex. He’d left Stanford to follow Dean a few months ago, and already they had fallen back into the glorious patterns of their youth. It was like Sam had never left. It was odd how kicking your brother until you knew you would have bruises could feel like home.

“Dude, dude, he’s coming over.” Dean’s eyes suddenly went a little wide. “What do I do?”

“How would I know?” Sam was trying not to smile, because antagonizing Dean had never got him anywhere good- also it would be more fun to see his brother trying to keep it together while a guy hit on him.

“Act casual.” Dean demanded, putting on a deep scowl and sipping his coffee.

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw a man approaching- but he didn’t turn and look, because he was ‘acting casual’.

Despite how good Dean usually was at reading people, apparently he missed the mark this time, because the guy brushed past their table, coming within arm’s reach- and he just kept going. Never missed a step.

Sam got a good view of the backside of a tall man, close cropped blonde hair, t-shirt, jeans, lightly muscled arms that were heavily tattooed. He caught a glimpse of a hammerhead shark near the man’s writs before he pulled a heavy looking denim jacket over it.

Something pressed against Sam’s thoughts, a recognition that felt almost dizzying. Distantly he was aware that Dean was rolling his eyes and mumbling something into his coffee- but that was secondary, because Sam was remembering a humid southern night and arms just like those gripping at back of the bench behind him, strong fingers running through his hair. Sam’s stomach felt weak, his heart catching in his throat.

“Nick?” Sam spoke just loud enough to make his voice carry, but not enough to draw attention to himself- the way you do if you think you see a friend in a crowd so you say their name to see if they turn.

And Nick did turn, just glancing over his shoulder, looking just as gorgeous as Sam remembered him- which was completely unfair, because memories were supposed to be overly romanticized, softened and made better over time- they weren’t supposed to be this accurate.

Nick didn’t smile at him exactly, at least not with his lips. It was all in his eyes, pale blue crinkling warmly.

But then Nick turned away, walking calmly to the door, away from Sam.

And Sam wanted none of it. He set his coffee beside Dean and pushed himself up from the little table. “I’ll be right back.” He left his brother sputtering behind him, easily darting through the crowd- it was easy to do when he towered head and shoulders over every one there. Nick’s arm was solid underneath his hand and the man paused at the door, glancing back again. He was shorter than Sam remembered… but perhaps that was subjective. Or maybe Sam had really just grown that much.

“Hey.” He said softly. Six years and all he had was a lame little _hey_. He was so glad that Dean was too far away to hear him.

“Hi, Sam.” Nick inclined his head gently, like greeting someone you see every day. “Sorry.” He nodded to the small heard of expensive ladies and their tiny dogs, stepping out of their way and holding the door open to let them file out. They never looked up from their phones and drinks.

“Hey.” And Sam felt his mouth turn down as he realized he had already said that.

“You really grew into those legs, didn’t you?” Nick said with the smallest hint of a smile, not bringing up Sam’s little verbal faults. “Still need a hair cut though.”

“I… I like my hair like this.” He glanced up at the mess of hair hanging in his eyes, getting a bit of a smile.

“I would say it suites you- but it’s pretty much the only part of you that I recognized, so maybe I’m bias.” Nick’s face lit up for a second. “And that smile of yours. I recognized that too.”

Sam fought down a giddy kind of feeling that generally was followed by him blushing. He was too old and in too clear a view of Dean to let himself blush. “What are you doing out here?”

“Same thing you are I’m guessing.” Nick leaned against the wall, looking so casual, smile settling into a lazy expression.

“I-I doubt that.” Sam kind of laughed. What an odd world it would be if Nick _was_ out here hunting vampires as well.

Nick didn’t quite meet his eyes, looking past Sam, over his shoulder, out into the little coffee shop. “It’s a beautiful bit of kismet, running into you, Sam- but I don’t want to keep you from your boyfriend. He doesn’t look too happy that I’ve stolen your attention this long already.”

“Boyfriend?” Sam said the word like he didn’t know it. “What- no. That’s-” he choked on another laugh, “that’s my brother.”

“ _That’s_ your brother?” Nick looked up at Sam, eyebrows hitched in mild surprise. “Those are some damn fine genetics at work.”

He couldn’t help it, Sam was grinning ear to ear- but it kind of faltered as Dean’s hand clapped heavily over his shoulder. His big brother coming into his space like he had been given permission.

“Hey, Sammy. Who’s your friend?” Dean had that good ol’ boy charm going for him, but Sam could read his brother, all those little flinches and shrugs, the tension in the way he held himself. He wasn’t happy, even if he hid it well.

“This is Nick.” Sam said carefully, aware that Dean could read him just as easily. “He’s an old friend of mine.”

Nick was playing with his lip- a very familiar feeling habit- a gentle smile and lazy, unimpressed eyes. “You’re the brother I’ve heard so much about.” He lied so easily, Sam had never told him a damn thing about Dean.

“Let me guess, you’re not a friend from school?” Dean grinned, holding a little tighter to his brother’s shoulder.

Nick looked as unimpressed by Dean as the hunter was by him. “We met while he was in school.” He answered in an obtuse way before looking up at Sam. “You just passing through?”

“Yeah.” Sam wanted to shake Dean off, push him away and tell him to get lost. He settled for ignoring him- which wasn’t easy with his brother holding his shoulder tight enough to bruise. “We’re only in town for a few days.”

Surprisingly, Nick was just as good at ignoring Dean. “Can I buy you a drink before you leave? For old time’s sake?”

“Y-yeah.” Sam stumbled over the word, a little thrill going thought him. Before he could register what a glaringly large admission of guilt he had just  given to his brother, Nick had produced a sharpie (stolen from the coffee counter) and he was writing a phone number on the coffee cup that he had pulled from Dean’s hand.

Easy as you please, he handed the cup to Sam and tossed the pilfered sharpie back to the counter. “Maybe I’ll get you that lemonade.” He smiled with his languid blue eyes, promises hidden somewhere deep in there, and Sam felt his ears burning.

“I’ll call before I leave.” Sam promised, not knowing if he would be able to keep it.

“I think you really might this time.” Nick held the door open for a harried looking man coming in from the rain, and the blonde slipped out onto the sidewalk, tucking his hands in his pockets and walking away.

Sam watched him go and wondered what good he had done in life to have earned this second chance.

“What the hell was that all about?” Dean shook his shoulder before letting go, frowning up at his kid brother, ideas forming on his face, connections being made even without Sam saying anything.

“Just a friend that I never got to say goodbye to.” He wasn’t lying. That had to count for something.

“From Stanford?” Dean sounded incredibly suspicious.

“Alabama.” He said quietly before pulling up the collar of his jacket and heading outside. They were wasting time just standing around, the drizzle of rain wasn’t going to give up anytime soon.

“When the hell were you ever in Alabama?” Dean quickly caught up, frowning as hard as he could.

“Right after I turned sixteen.” Sam did his best to keep it vague as he trotted across the street back to the gleaming and beautiful car that he had missed more than he thought possible when he ran away to college.

Dean stood on the driver’s side of the car, looking at Sam over the black metal. “Was that the… bird thing that dad was hunting out in the swamps?”

“Think so.” There had been so many hunts, so many cities, Sam had a hard time keeping them all straight.

“He didn’t sound like he was from Alabama.”

“Getting soaked out here, Dean.” Sam reminded loudly.

Dean’s mouth quirked in an unreadable little bend and he popped the locks and slid into the car.

.:.

Two days later they were in a crummy motel out in Emeryville, cleaning blood off their hands and arms and faces, huddled shoulder to shoulder around the little bathroom sink. Dean was grinning wildly, adrenalin making his eyes dangerously dark where he watched Sam in the mirror.

“What do you think that was?” His older brother’s voice was jarring. Neither of them had spoken since the whatever-the-hell that thing was had been decapitated with a well aimed swing of Sam’s machete. The arterial spray had painted both brothers and the ceiling. The blood had been too dark, almost purple, and it smelled like rancid meat.

They burned the body out back of the sugar refinery, Dean had rolled the head over with a sharp kick and they watched the flames eat away at the sickly grey flesh- its flat, dead eyes watched them, its copper teeth shining red in the fire light. It hadn’t been a vampire, whatever it was.

Sam kind of shrugged, feeling boneless and awkward, the scrapes along his knuckles burning like he had poured iodine on them. He scrubbed harder at the sticky, dark blood. The skin beneath was red and irritated.

“Whatever it was, it smelled fucking awful. I need a shower.” Dean’s grin never faltered. “Then I need a drink. You in?”

Sam glanced up from his hands. “No, that’s alright.”

Dean got this look, the kind of dark expression that meant trouble for Sam. “You gunna go out with your friend?”

“I was thinking of giving him a call.” He confessed carefully while avoiding eye contact.

 Dean seemed to consider this for a long moment before nodding almost to himself, as if he understood. “You always did have a thing for blondes.”

“What?” Sam managed to sound more offended than guilty and was quite proud of himself.

“Since this will be your first time, Samantha, make sure he goes easy on you.” Dean teased with a flash of teeth, obviously loving the reaction he was getting. “We’ve got to get back on the road tomorrow and I don’t want you bitching and moaning about how much your ass hurts.”

“Shut up, Dean.” He pushed past his brother with a roll of his eyes and heat high on his cheeks, stealing a towel and drying his hands.

“Or you planning to top?” He didn’t follow Sam out of the bathroom, just raised his voice to make sure he could still be heard. “Cuz’ that’s a lot of man for you to take on, Sammy.”

Sam was glad that he was safely in the other room, so his big brother couldn’t see how embarrassed he really was. Far more than he should be for the normal sort of teasing that was expected to come from Dean. He pulled on a clean shirt and tried to pretend that he wasn’t half as mortified by his brother’s words as he actually was.

“You’re right, Dean. You want to come along and give me pointers?” He teased back because it was expected and if he didn’t then Dean would know something was up. “I know you’ve got a lot more experience with big strong men than I do.” And that kind of ribbing could go two ways and Sam held his breath, waiting for Dean to reply.

A slightly baffled brother peeked out of the bathroom. “Dude! He is so not my type.” And he ducked back out of sight closing the door behind him. The shower squeaked on and made its rushing white noise.

Sam knew he had about five minutes to himself because Dean was a firm believer of military showers, fast and efficient. In every aspect of his life.

A new pair of jeans replaced the bloodied and stained ones. He would need to burn them in all likelihood, but it’s not like they had been his favorite pair or anything. He sat himself down on the edge of his bed and pulled out his cell phone. Nick’s number was there, programmed in a few days ago for safe keeping- and Sam wasn’t sure he was brave enough to call.

After so many years, he really wasn’t sure what to say. He honestly never expected to see Nick again after leaving Alabama, so this wasn’t really a contingency that he had needed to plan for. Even after being close enough to touch him only two days ago, Sam hadn’t devoted much time to thinking about the blonde man. The hunt had been too exciting. He had other things he had needed to think about. Like staying alive, for one. Now he had a dwindling few minutes to do his best to not sound like a total fool to the man he had been having wet dreams about for over six years.

Nick answered on the fourth ring, his voice as husky and deep as any phone sex operator. “Hello?”

“Hi.” _So smooth_. “It’s Sam.”

Nick didn’t reply so much as make a soft approving noise that made Sam feel dizzy.

“I-I’m in town for one more night.” He licked his lips, feeling inappropriately nervous. “Can I take you up on that drink?”

The answer, not surprisingly, was yes.

Dean was kind enough to drive Sam back into San Francisco, as there was only one car between them and he had already decide that tonight was a night for drinking. The bar that Nick wanted to meet Sam at was uptown and from the look of it, way over priced.

They ended up parking about five blocks away and walking it back to the bar. Parking could be such a hassle in the city. Dean made noises about not staying because he couldn’t afford to spend time with girls that went to bars like this, and inwardly Sam was grateful. He didn’t need a wingman tonight.

“I’ll take the BART back to Emeryville, you don’t have to stay and babysit me.”

“I can’t _afford_ to stay and babysit you.” Dean pointed out, opening the door and almost holding it for his brother. “I just don’t like the idea of leaving you with a stranger.”

“I am an adult, Dean.” He said a little too loudly, over compensating for the wall of noise that washed over them accompanying the cool blue bar lights. Everything was glass and steel and black marble. Not every guy in the place had on a suit, but it was safe to assume that the brothers were the only people in the joint that shopped at thrift stores.

“You think I don’t know what kind of trouble adults get into?” He might have meant it as a joke, but it sounded a little too sharp on the edges, a little too much like a warning. They had only been back together for a few months, but Dean had always taken the protection of his baby brother as priority number one.

Sam scanned the crowd and was relieved that it wasn’t a gay bar. Dean could be surprisingly dense sometimes , but even he was bound to notice if every couple in the joint was same sex.

“Does he follow you everywhere?”

Sam staggered to the side, away from Nick who had virtually materialized at his shoulder. “I forgot how damned quiet you are.” He whisper/yelled at the man who was smiling in his subtle way.

“I’ll make a point of being loud for you tonight.” Nick said solemnly.

For some reason that little promise made Sam’s face feel hot. He was glad he had turned away from his brother so that Nick was the only one to see the blush. And Sam was too damn old to be blushing, but it didn’t stop him.

“Hey, Sammy. You think I can get that redhead at the bar to buy me a drink?” Dean was elbowing him in the ribs, sharp impatient jabs demanding his attention.

Sam glanced over and saw the woman that Dean had noticed, and she was noticing him right back. She had a simple black dress and pale freckled legs that were probably about as long as Sam’s. Her mess of red hair curled over one mostly bare shoulder and she had a smile that should have been illegal for public consumption.

“I think she’ll give you more than a drink.” Sam said carefully. The woman was watching Dean like she planned to take him down right there. Dean just had that affect on some people.

“This could work out better than I thought-“ he glanced over at Sam and his eyes narrowed when he took in Nick. “Ah, you showed up.” He sounded almost disappointed, which was stupid, because what did he expect Sam to do if Nick wasn’t there. It’s not like he could tag along and help his brother out with that redhead.

“You gunna take off?” Dean had lost his smile. He obviously didn’t like the idea of letting Sam go into the night, despite the fact that they both knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself.

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.” It wasn’t even a goodbye- it was really more of an ‘I’ll see you in a few hours’.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, but he was pointedly not looking at Nick, who was a warm spot on the peripheral of Sam’s awareness.  “Come ‘ere.” He jerked his head back to the entrance and Sam rolled his eyes but knew that it was easier to just not argue and let Dean say his peace.

He followed his brother and had to lean down to hear him. “What, Dean? What is it now?”

“You got protection?” He sounded dead serious and it startled Sam.

“What? No, he’s just a friend. We’re not going to-“

“He’s carrying.” His voice was so low and even, calm and hard to hear over the bustle and music of the bar.

“Carrying?” Sam leaned away a fraction. “Carrying what?”

Dean rolled his eyes like he couldn’t believe that he was related to someone as slow as Sam. “A gun.”

He couldn’t stop himself from looking over his shoulder at the man he had come here to meet, leaning against the bar with a glass of what might have been scotch.

“He doesn’t have a _gun_.” He said the word like it was dirty.

Dean didn’t justify that- he just stared at Sam like he was a moron.

Sam straightened and felt confused.

“What kind of friend do you got there, Sammich?”

“I-I met him in church.”

“Like hell- you’ve never been to church.” It was as if the very idea was ludicrous to Dean.

It was Sam’s turn to just stare at his brother.

Dean bristled. “Whatever. I don’t give a good god damn where you met the guy. Do you have your gun or not?”

“No, Dean. I don’t bring guns on dates.” And he was struck by abject horror of letting slip the word ‘date’ but either Dean didn’t notice, or didn’t take it seriously. Instead, his award winning brother pulled a browning 9mm from only god knew where and pressed it into Sam’s hand.

The little gun practically disappeared beneath the curl of his overly large fingers and he was quick to slip it into the waistband of his jeans, beneath his jacket, before anyone could see it.

“You’re insane.” He hissed between his teeth, scanning around them to make sure no one was looking too closely.

“I’m a fucking boy scout.” Dean poked him in the chest with a very well aimed and strong finger. “I expect a call or text around midnight and another every two hours after that. Otherwise I’m going to assume you’re dead in a ditch somewhere and it’s going to put a real damper on me boning that hot chick at the bar.”

Sam just put his hands up, either in frustration or surrender, neither of them could be sure. “Every two hours.” He agreed with a sigh.

“Yeah. You will.” Dean pushed past his brother, lingering for a moment in the awkward contact, something affectionate in the movement- before swaggering over the bar and sitting down beside the lovely lady who had waited so patiently for him.

Sam wished that he could have that kind of confidence, but it just wasn’t him. He was the awkward one, even after he grew into his long limbs and gained command of his expanded personal space. But he was still just Sam. And there was nothing wrong with that. He liked who he was (most days), but that didn’t mean that he knew what to do with Nick.

Nick, who had caught his eye from the other side of the room and was watching him with a steady gaze.

Nick who looked better than he had in memories.

Nick who may or may not have a concealed weapon somewhere on his person- though Sam was looking at him _quite_ thoroughly and he saw no sign of any firearms.  

Sam liked to have strategies. He made lists, and elaborate plans, and secondary plans for when the first ones fell apart. But he didn’t have that kind of time. Instead he had a man he hardly knew, and wanted to know much better, and no time at all to plan anything. Maybe this would just have to be something he figured it out as he went along.

With something passing for confidence, he joined the man at the bar. Nick nudged a hard lemonade towards Sam before tipping his scotch in the hunter’s direction with a smile so wicked its parents should have sent it to military school.

Sam couldn’t stop himself from smiling back, and why would he want to?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd rather give you a chunk of a chapter now rather than a whole one later.  
> Updating makes me feel like I've made some kind of progress.

Sam was quick to realize that Nick could drink him under the table and Sam needed to pace himself or he was going to end up doing something awful before the night was through. He wasn’t made for competitive drinking. Alcohol made him sloppy, despite the fact that his big brother had introduced him to the sin years ago in hopes of inoculating him at an early age. Like getting your immunization shots as a kid.

The shots never took, and there was probably a pun in there somewhere.

Half of the lemonade was gone and Sam’s chest felt warm, his fingertips tingling, teeth slick. When he grinned it was a little loose.

 Nick, by comparison, was on his second scotch and steady as a rock.

Wisely (while he still could), Sam pushed aside his drink.

“So…” and he wasn’t sure where to go from there.

“So,” Nick agreed, looking at Sam’s hands before glancing up at his face. “What have you been up to other than growing into some kind of glorious giant?”

“I got into Stanford, did some prelaw…” he kind of shrugged. “Went on a road trip with my brother.” Wow, was that really all he had done? There were a decent number of monster and other horrifying things that defied definition that he had had the misfortune of hunting and killing- but that didn’t seem like the kind of thing that you talk about to people in bars. At least not ones you hoped to be kissing later. Most people considered crazy sounding talk like that to be some kind of turn off.

Go figure.

“You still on that road trip?” The other man asked like he already knew the answer and when Sam nodded he nodded back. “And where are you boys headed next?”

“Don’t know yet.” Sam answered honestly. “East probably, seeing as we ran out of land this way.” It had been that way since he was a kid. If you didn’t have a specific hunt then you just kept driving until you hit the ocean, waiting for something to seem out of place.

Nick didn’t look particularly like he was listening to the answer- but at the same time he was leaning far too close and watching Sam’s mouth too carefully to miss what was being said.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean was walking past on his bowlegs, arm around the trim waist of the leggy redhead who was hiding her face in his neck. He winked at his brother, crooked smile in place to mask the slight narrowing in his eyes as he glanced covertly in Nick’s direction. “Every two hours.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sighed, not wanting to go over this again, like he was some little kid being dropped off at a friend’s house for a play date.

Dean winked at his brother as he passed- and Sam saw that Dean had let his hand slip to the girls pert little backside and she giggled loudly. This all meant that Dean would be in a spectacular mood tomorrow, so if nothing else, there was that to look forward to.

His big brother left, and Sam was alone with Nick, or at least as alone as someone can be in a bar full of happily drunk San Franciscans

“ _Sammy_?” Nick asked softly, drawing back the young hunter’s attention.

“Just Sam.” He corrected gently, not liking how the name sounded coming from anyone other than his brother.

“Every two hours?” He raised one pale eyebrow.

“It’s… he just wants me to check in. He doesn’t like the idea of leaving me alone in a strange city with strange men.”

“Big brothers can be overly protective.” Nick smiled into his glass, finishing the last dregs of scotch. “Lord knows mine is.” He set down his glass with a noisy clink of ice. “So, knowing that neither of our brothers would have let us out of their sights if they had any idea what I intend to do to you tonight- it’s safe to assume that we should both be careful about not leaving any visible marks.”

Sam made a soft choking sound, all the blood in his body rushing to opposite ends. Face hot, jeans tight.

Nick’s smile got a little wider, obviously amused at Sam’s reaction. “It just seems like a good idea to lay some ground rules since I’ve got work in the morning and you’ve got to go back to a big brother who probably still has no idea that you… like to hide in churches.” He put such an odd emphasis on those last words, all kinds of innuendo left out in the open.

“I-” Sam had to look away, startled laughter catching in his throat. He didn’t know how to respond to something like that. He wasn’t sure if he was being teased or if Nick really was setting out the rules for the rest of their night. If so, Sam thought that he might really be ok with-

“So like the opposite of boxing then?” He looked up through his mess of hair, not quite able to meet Nick’s eye, but he could at least share in the joke.

“Boxing?” Nick’s smile went a little crooked as he bit his lower lip.

“Yeah, typically boxing is everything goes as long as it’s above the belt.” Yeah, he had definitely had too much to drink, though he wasn’t complaining. “So-”

Nick caught on with a soft chuckle. “The opposite being we keep it below the belt?”

And Sam was giggling like a teenager who had just been told a dirty joke- which wasn’t far off.

“How about a walk?”

“A walk?” Sam was fighting down a grin, wanting to appear as far from an awkward kid as possible.

“Fresh air might sober you up a bit.” Nick was pulling out his wallet, tossing a few bills down onto the bar.

“I’m not drunk.” His voice going all defensive and rough.

“Well, then keep me company while I walk. The fresh air might help sober _me_ up a bit.” He straightened and for a moment was a bit taller than Sam, close enough that Sam could smell the scotch on his breath, see the hazy lights dancing in his eyes.

Nick wasn’t much better at holding his liquor than Sam. He was just better at pretending.

The night air was bracingly cold and Sam zipped up the hoodie he wore beneath his canvas jacket. Nick stayed close on the narrow sidewalk, and the two of them didn’t do anything as stupid as hold hands, but their arms brushed from time to time and neither of them apologized for it.

Sam did his best to watch the other man out of the corner of his eye while still being overly cautious where his feet were hitting the uneven pavement. “Did you, uh, get transferred to a church out here or something?”

“No.” Nick said slowly, with a hint of a smile.  “I needed a break from all those hail marys and psalms.”

“Aren’t hail marys specifically catholic?” Sam knew he was far from an expert on the various religious how tos and why fors- but he was fairly certain on that one.  Just as certain as he was that the church out in Alabama had been Baptist.

“It was meant metaphorically, Sam.” Nick had that way of stretching out his name, dragging it on far too long.

“So what are you doing all the way out here?” After all this time, so many years between them, Sam still didn’t feel like he was particularly good at small talk. Any question he asked felt too much like prying. It wasn’t meant to be an interrogation- though it seemed that Nick understood or wasn’t at all bothered by Sam’s prying, smiling soft and indifferent.

“Social work.”

“Social work?” Sam laughed again, grinning in disbelief. And he thought to himself that that might be part of Nick’s charm, that straight faced way he had of saying everything, no way to tell if he was joking or not.

“Lots of people in this city need help.” He said wisely.

Sam smiled and shook his head, it wasn’t that he wanted to argue, anywhere you went there were people who needed help. Hell, it was the very same reason that Winchesters had come out here. But it didn’t make the words sound any less strange coming from Nick.

People are supposed to be warm, it was simply one of the upsides of being hot blooded mammals. Despite that simple fact- Nick’s hand was cold against Sam’s. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, the older man wasn’t holding his hand so much as grabbing it, pulling Sam to a stop.

“Yeah?”

“This is me.” Nick inclined his head to the side, eyes lidded and content.

“…this?” Sam frowned a little and glanced around. Apartment buildings towered over them, fifteen or twenty stories tall, upper levels fading off into the low cloud cover.

This is where Nick lived.

 A funny feeling tickled its way through Sam’s stomach, anticipation mingling with momentary panic. This was actually happening. It must have shown on his face, his eyes going wide, because Nick lowered his gaze with a gently apologetic expression. 

“But we’re not done walking.” He said like a soft revelation, changing his grip so that they were holding hands, fingers weaving together with ease.

Sam didn’t have to say anything, which was nice, because he wasn’t sure what to say. They kept walking, slowing their pace considerably to make it up the next hill.

“So, Stanford? Are you going to be a lawyer?”

The change of direction made Sam’s mind struggle to catch up. “I dr-” and he didn’t want to admit to Nick that he had dropped out months ago in favor of hunting monsters with his brother. There was no rationality in keeping that fact from the other man. “I think I always assumed that one day my brother would end up in jail and he’d need a good defense lawyer.”

Nick’s teeth flashed in a startled grin. “And has he?”

“No-“ Sam realized he was still fully capable of smiling, which was good. “They haven’t been able to catch him yet.”

Nick’s shoulder brushed his. “Ah, so you two are on the run then?”

It was a little too close to the truth at times, so Sam’s laugh was a bit strained. “It certainly feels like it some days.”

“How long have you two been on your road trip?” His thumb dug slow patterns on the back of Sam’s hand.

“Since…” he frowned, trying to remember, “last Halloween.” How long ago was that? Sam realized faintly that he wasn’t sure what month this was anymore, not even sure if it was spring or fall. That was probably a bad sign if there ever was one.

Nick’s smile left as easily as it came, and Sam knew that there must have been something wrong with what he had said, but he didn’t know what it was.

“Are you alright, Sam?” He stopped walking, looking up with an expression of curiosity rather than pity or concern.

“Yeah.” He scoffed, because why would he be anything other than alright?

“Seven months… is just a long time to be on a road trip.”

Good god, had it really been seven months? Seven months since Dean showed up in his kitchen in the middle of the night. Seven months since they started looking for Dad. Seven months since… since Jess died.

Nick’s hand, still cold against his, gave a squeeze. “I know it doesn’t make much sense in this city, but I’ve got a car.”

“What?” Sam scrunched up his eyebrows, not sure where they were going with this.

“I can take you to the train- or to your hotel or wherever…” Nick let his words just kind of trail off.

And Dean had always told Sam that he was the smart brother, but he didn’t feel all that smart right now. Confusion and liquor making him slow, taking too much time to catch up.

The past few months had just been a blur. There was only blood and violence, endless stretches of highway, the same few cassette tapes, and the same broken down brother. Sam was falling apart, losing himself a little more each day- or maybe finding himself for the first time. Hunting was, after all, what he had been raised to do. Sam had been made to save people, kill thing- bad things, and he had returned to it all without hesitation. He had let it consume him.

It was easy to focus on the evil in the world, there just seemed to be so much more of it lately. He needed the chaos and pain, because… because he felt like it was what he deserved at this point. He hadn’t been there to save Jess, and maybe he didn’t deserve to be happy. And he knew that that was some messed up, backwards thinking there- but knowing and being able to do something about it were two different things.

Here he was, in the middle of the night, hand in hand with someone who had once meant something very uniquely wonderful to him. And for the first time since this all started, he realized that this wasn’t living anymore. He had been as good as dead for months.

Without allowing himself time to second guess his motives, he pressed into Nick, kissing him quickly before he lost his nerve. He hadn’t aimed, he hadn’t really taken time to make sure they were lined up, so he caught the corner of the man’s mouth, soft lips, rough stubble, and for one endless moment, Nick just stood there stiffly, eyes open wide with surprise.

But just like the first time that Sam had been brave or desperate enough to kiss him many years ago during a summer storm, Nick took a slow breath and kissed back. Same as before, he seemed to have a much better handle on the situation. The hand that wasn’t holding Sam’s came up to touch the side of his neck steering him gently, angling him down so that their mouths slotted together just like they should.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, and Sam tasted scotch on Nick’s lips. Flavored like burnt wood and pine. The man pulled back slowly, lips parted, tip of his tongue running over the sharp edge of his teeth. Nick smiled with just his eyes, something hungry and dark slithering through the blue.

“And then what happens, Sam?” The toes of their shoes were touching, the palms of their hands, Nick’s fingertips against the thready pulse in his neck.

 “We go back to your apartment.” Sam swayed chaotically towards Nick, their knees brushing; his skin was so hot he was surprised it wasn’t burning the other man’s hand where it touched him. “Maybe we make a couple cups of coffee.”

“I don’t have any coffee.” Nick’s thumb was running slowly along the line of his jaw towards his ear.

“Tea?” Sam countered, slipping his hand from Nick’s to catch hold of his sides, warm and solid under his palms.

Nick chuckled lowly, standing close enough that the air between them thrummed with the rich sound. “I can make you some tea.”

“Maybe we can find a nice place to sit,” Sam was shocked at how level his was keeping his voice, “tell each other stories.”

“Just like we used to?” Nick murmured before kissing him again, just a soft brush of lips, just enough heat to start a fire. They were talking like old friends- people who hadn’t seen one another in years and were reminiscing about the better times. Remember when? Those were the days. And maybe that was half right.

“It’s a good place to start.” Sam said with a crooked smile.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw, yis. got the other half of that last chapter done and done. It feels good to get it off my laptop.   
> Kissing chapter ahoy.  
> ye be warned.

 

Nick’s apartment was on the fourteenth floor. The building was a posh affair, filigree and original tile floors lovingly cared for over the years, chipped in places but very clean. The whole city was slipping into the bay and any building constructed before the last big earthquake showed signs, the floor uneven in nearly imperceptible ways, just enough that you felt a slight hint of vertigo. Nick’s building was no exception.

Some diabolical architect in the nineteen-forties had planned the monster of a building with the seemingly explicit intent of tormenting those who lived inside. This fact was obvious to Sam as he looked up the narrow and slanting stairwell. He wasn’t tricked. This was sadistic.

“No elevator?”

Nick hesitated for a moment, “We’ve got a fright lift in the back.” He nodded down a side hall past the doorman’s desk. “One of those ancient things with the pull down grated door, but it’s slower than fuck.” His eyes sparked at the inappropriately salty word, seeming to take pleasure in how it startled Sam. “It’d be quicker to just take the stairs.”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

Nick’s eyebrows darted up for a moment, taking in Sam’s smile and answering with one of his own before he started walking away from the stairs. Sam followed, thinking to himself that this was definitely the right way to get yourself into trouble.

Down the hall, around two bends, and there it was, the kind of elevator that didn’t belong outside of mine shafts. Just a big metal cube with walls of steel bars and a solid floor with rust in the corners. It looked like all kinds of unsafe and Sam felt that oddly giddy feeling creeping back up for no good reason. The kind of thrill you get before getting on a rollercoaster.

The door made an unholy noise as Nick dragged it up, metal grinding and screaming in protest. “Ask and it shall be given.” He gestured in a broad, sweeping movement. “Your elevator, as promised.”

Sam shook his head and got in. Nick owned the same flair for the sarcastic that Dean had. It probably said something about the hunter that he was going home with a man who so closely reminded him of his big brother- and that something wasn’t healthy. But Sam, for the sake of sanity, decided it was best to not think about it, instead he helped to pull the door back down into place.

The noise the elevator made after the up button was pressed was wholly worse than the door noises and for a moment it sounded like being in a giant garbage disposal, gears grinding and halting as the mechanism struggled to life. It quieted to a deafening hum and the lift slowly started to rise.

“If this breaks down and we get stranded in here I’m going to...” Nick eyed the elevator shaft with mild apprehension, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.

“You’re gunna’ what?”

“… probably eat you.” Nick didn’t meet his eye, just watched as the walls slid past.

“I doubt we’ll be in here long enough to worry about resorting to cannibalism.”

And Nick smiled at him sideways, just for a second, not enough to mask his agitation. “Wasn’t talking about cannibalism.”

Sam struggled with a very dramatic blush that reached all the way to his ears. Stricken with the sudden image of Nick on his knees, pale blue eyes looking up at Sam while he-

An interesting noise escaped while he struggled to find his voice. “Oh.”

Nick chuckled softly, looking away. He rubbed at his jaw, mouth in a tense line and suddenly Sam recognized the hunch of his shoulders, the tightness in the corners of his eyes.

“Hey, are you alright?” That giddy feeling was gone, replaced with concern- because Nick looked just like Dean when they had had to take a flight months ago.

“You know- I actually went to seminary to be a catholic priest.” Nick’s thumb and forefinger tugged at his lower lip. “But I couldn’t deal with the confessionals. Just being in one of those little boxes...” He dropped his hand, then crossed his arms, fidgeting, a dozen little movements like he didn’t remember how to stand still.

“You’re claustrophobic?” And this wasn’t the trouble that Sam had in mind when he decided to come here.

“No.” Nick looked over, his eyes the only steady part of him in that moment. “It’s not a phobia. I just- when I was a kid my brother would sometimes lock me in the cellar.”

That was one of those little surprising facts that you have a hard time processing when you first hear. Sam found himself shaking his head. “We – we could have taken the stairs if you’re afraid of-”

“It’s _not_ a phobia.” Nick repeated firmly. “I just have a thing about small spaces.” He ran his hands through his close cropped hair and seemed to steady himself. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Sam, I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

Which was fair enough that Sam didn’t feel like he should press the matter. Not that that was going to stop him. He took a little shuffling step closer, close enough that he could reach out and catch Nick’s belt loops, tugging gently.

The blonde watched him with a wayward kind of expression, half distracted by the big painted number six that slid downward beyond the grated walls. Almost half way there. Nick hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the lift was slow.

“Can I try to take your mind off the elevator?” Sam wondered how many times he could blush in one night. He felt like he was going for some kind of record at this point.

Nick got a hint of a smile in those blue, blue eyes. “I don’t know. It’s awfully loud- you’ll have to be very distracting.”

Sam had spent the better part of his youth practicing large scale distraction in one form or another. He felt up for the challenge.

He didn’t have to lean very far down to brush his lips against Nick’s, cautious calculated movements- and Sam was better at this than he had been when he was sixteen, not even half as nervous now. He released Nick’s hips, cupping his face, tipping him upward. Nick’s lips parted, agitation fleeing from his lust-black gaze and Sam kissed him forcefully, deep and then deeper still. The other man gave beneath him so kindly, fingers tight on Sam’s shoulders, his tongue in Sam’s mouth, offering reckless things.

It was all too soon that the elevator clamored to a halt, shaking them lose from each other, and Sam was panting, light headed and distracted. Just because they had reached the right floor was no reason to pull away. At least not in his opinion.

“Well now.” Nick licked his lips slowly, almost thoughtfully. “That seems to have done the trick.” He released Sam’s shoulders hesitantly, mouth wet and abused. “Got us here nice and safe.”

“Safe.” Sam felt like that word was very subjective at this point. He didn’t feel safe. He felt dangerously illogical. Unhinged, jumbled thoughts revolving on how Nick’s mouth had tasted and how Sam would probably spend the rest of his life craving that specific taste. Like a drug addict. And Sam was already imagining himself waking from fever soaked sleep, months from now, gasping and dying for another hit.

“Come put those big strong arms to use and help me with the door.” Apparently Nick could recover just that much faster than Sam, leaning down, struggling to pull up the heavy door.

Sam helped, he was very good at helping. The door stuck momentarily and the two men had to shake it free. It went up maybe four feet- enough to work.

“You’re taking the stairs down in the morning.” Nick informed him as he crouched to slip beneath the metal bars.

Sam was offered a beautiful view of the wrong side of Nick for the first time in years- and immediately he had two thoughts.

First being that the blonde man had a delightfully muscular backside. It was not a thought that Sam had ever had about a man before, and that made it a little distressing.

Second being how very odd it was that Nick’s jacket pulled in such a tight band over his shoulders until he straightened again.

Sam knew what it meant, but he refused that part of himself. If he admitted what he knew, it would somehow make Dean right about Nick.

And Sam hated when Dean was right.

“You’ve got to keep up, Sam. Or can you not fit?” Nick looked over his shoulder, eyes still darker than they should be. His pupils blown wide the only sign that he wasn’t as calm and casual as he wanted to appear.

Sam narrowed his gaze, giving the tight lipped smile that Dean always called his ‘bitch face’. He was forced to hunker down, practically crawling to get out.

“Look at you- so graceful.” Nick teased softly.

“Like a Russian gymnast.” He assured and Nick chuckled easily, like he wasn’t even close to buying that lie.

They walked the horseshoe shaped hall, coming to Nick’s apartment after the second bend. It just looked like an apartment door, same as everyone that they had passed already. But Sam was willfully going into a den of iniquity, and it could at least look marginally more sinister.

Nick unlocked the door with keys from his pocket and the small apartment on the other side looked equally innocent. Apparently all those years living in a church had left some kind of mark on the man- at least when it came his decorating sense. Spartan was a good word to describe it. Battered, but comfy looking couch, small table with only one chair, little bookcase over laden with paperbacks- and that was about it from where Sam was standing.

“It’s, uh… cozy.” He said without thinking and Nick looked affronted.

“Seek not after riches nor the vain things of this world,” the man said easily, “for behold, you cannot carry them with you.”

Sam raised his hands in a yielding gesture.  He was not about to get into an argument if someone was quoting scripture. It was one arena where he knew he couldn’t hold his own.

“You know- it’s really easy to forget that you were a minister… or whatever you were.”

“Or whatever I was.” Nick agreed, eyes dancing with some kind of humor and he walked into the little kitchenette. “Still want that tea?”

Sam made a soft affirmative noise, not because he particularly wanted tea, but because it offered him time to just stand there and watch Nick. The man moved with easy, practiced little gestures. Filling a copper kettle from the sink, flicking a little wooden match against his thumbnail before lighting the pilot light, and setting the water on to boil.

Sam couldn’t say why, but he found it funny that Nick actually owned the things needed to make tea.

Nick leaned his forearms against the counter, resting, arching his bowing nicely. “What are we laughing about now?”

“I guess I just didn’t expect you to actually have tea.”

“I’m a man of simple pleasures.”

“Who likes drinking scotch and taking college boys home?” Sam came to lean in the doorway, hip cocked, wide shoulders taking up most of the frame.

“What can I say? I know what I like.” He offered an easy shrug, smile never leaving his eyes. He reached a hand out, toying with one of the buttons on Sam’s jacket.

“Do you do this often then?” Sam didn’t know what made him ask, but he knew that the answer was oddly important to him. Which was stupid, because he didn’t know Nick, didn’t own him. It was only by bizarre chance that they had even run into each other again after all these years- and still it riled Sam to think that there might be others. The human mind is illogical like that sometimes.

“The drinking or the college boys?”

Sam felt heat creeping up his neck- knowing that this really wasn’t his place to ask, so he didn’t. He just shrugged a shoulder and looked at the tea kettle where it sat over blue flames.

Nick’s hand slowly let go of the button in favor of slipping beneath Sam’s jacket, hooking his fingers on the pockets of his hoodie. “I’m surprised that you haven’t figured it out yet, Sam.”

“Figured what?” He let himself be tugged side to side, at the whims of Nick’s hand.

“You’re special.” Those blue eyes met his, passive and oh so deep.

Sam laughed, a short, surprised noise. “ _Special_?”

“I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. You have to admit, you can feel it, right?”  His voice had taken on a rough quality. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”  He pulled Sam a little closer, steering him easily. “I met you because I was _supposed_ to meet you. It’s exhilarating.”  His other hand came up and caught the opposite pocket. “Do you know why that is?”

Sam knew he was frowning, he could feet it between his eyes. Confusion digging its roots in deep.

“Because we are both the same creature, you and me. Made to find each other.” Nick clarified before tugging him down far enough to kiss him.

Sam didn’t know how to feel about that- about someone he hardly knew wanting him so unapologetically. It was a stunning feeling, like being blindsided.

Nick licked at the seam of his lips, asking wordlessly, and Sam let him in. Closing his eyes and opening hungrily to the other man, swallowing a soft moan- because, after all, this wasn’t the confusing part. He knew exactly what to feel as he slipped a hand to the back of Nick’s neck angling him upward sharply, teeth scraping against teeth, hint of copper on his tongue.

He bit experimentally at Nick and earned himself something close to a whimper- and Sam broke. He was suddenly pushing the shorter man back against the counter, hips digging into hips, grinding shameless and wanton. He kissed Nick raw, fingers tangled in his short, short hair, other hand finding the small of his back, digging little grooves into the notches of his spine. They fit together like two mismatched puzzle pieces, one a bit too big for the other, not quite right, but that didn’t stop either of them from trying.

Nick’s hands were spread wide over Sam’s stomach, rucked up under his shirts, brushing shakily over his lower ribs- and the hunter had no idea when the other man’s hands got on his skin, but that didn’t seem to matter all that much.

What did matter was that the kettle had started to scream, piercing shriek that was impossible to ignore.

Nick let his head fall back, at least as much as Sam’s grip would allow, gasping softly up at the ceiling. “Fuck, but that’s annoying.”

Sam let go of Nick, laughing and leaning over to turn off the burner. Unfortunately the water in the kettle was still boiling and the screaming didn’t really lessen all that much.

“You and that smile.” Nick gently pushed Sam off, escaping to dig through a drawer and pull out a pot holder so he could grasp the handle of the kettle and scoot it back to the back of the stove, letting it cool faster, letting the screaming die out. “I just don’t see how I’m supposed to keep it together when you’ve got dimples like that.” He wasn’t watching Sam, he was looking at the copper kettle, telling it his problems.

Sam wasn’t really listening at this point, he had problems of his own. He was still young, a kid hardly into his twenties, with a body that still very much ran on its own impulses regardless of what intentions Sam had. He couldn’t just slam on the breaks, his body wouldn’t let him. Without much thought he came up behind Nick, sliding his arms around his waist. Wanting and not being able to stop himself.

Nick lightly touched his arms through his jacket sleeves, leaning back into Sam. “Is this how it’s going to go?” He didn’t sound at all upset at the idea.

There was a spot behind Nick’s left ear, just the smallest faded blue tattoo of a German cross. Sam kissed it. “I don’t-”

Dean was calling- because of course Dean would call right now. The familiar ringtone was like a wake up alarm, violently dragging Sam awake. “Why?” He growled, all kinds of angry noises deep in his chest before letting go of Nick and taking a healthy five steps away before pulling out his phone. “What, Dean?”

“Heey, Sammy. Look at you answering your phone.” Dean was slurring, marginally drunk, but nowhere near incoherent yet.

“What d’ya need?”

“What do I- dude. It’s past midnight. You better be bleeding in a back alley somewhere, because you were supposed to call me half an hour ago.”

“I- I’m fine.” He ran a hand over his face, shaking only a little, mind very much on the man he left back in the kitchen. “I promise I’ll check in next time, jerk. I’m _fine_.” It was hard to appreciate having someone worry so much about him. Any other time it would have been heartwarming and wonderful, right now it was just a damned nuisance.

“You better, bitch.” Dean said with a laugh, obviously not caring if he was interrupting anything. “Hey. Hey, Sammy- did he show you his gun yet?”

“Good night, Dean.” Sam quickly hung up and tossed his phone onto the table. “Sorry about that.” He looked back over as Nick and felt his chest clench.

The man had left the kitchen, moving to the back of the apartment, shrugging out of his jacket. It bore his arms and all their lovely ink. It bore the straps of his shoulder holster and all its lovely bad omens.

Normal people don’t have shoulder holsters.

Simple and true facts.

Most people didn’t need a gun on their person often enough that they would need a holster of any kind. As far as Sam had worked out in his mind over the years, owning a gun broke down into three loose categories.

Either you had your gun illegally so you kept it hidden- tucked dangerously into the waistband of your jeans, as Sam did. This was most commonly seen with street thugs and other ne’er do wells.

Or you had your gun legally and wanted to show it off- kept in a hip holster, out in the open where everyone could see it.

Or… or you had it legally but didn’t want everyone to see it.

 _Normal_ people don’t have shoulder holsters.

Nick returned from the back room, gun gone, soft marks remaining in his black t-shirt, showing where the straps had been. His expression was perfectly impassive, eyes pale and searching Sam. “Was that your brother?”

Sam nodded slightly, or at least thought that he did.

Nick’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “Oh, right.” He sighed softly, raising one hand to point in the rough vicinity of the left side of his chest. “Don’t worry about it.” He flapped his hand in a dismissive gesture.

“Are-“ Sam struggled to get all his words in the right order, but Nick beat him to it.

“It’s for safety.” Nick walked calm, on quiet feet to stand before Sam, looking up at him. He reached slowly for Sam’s hip, slipping his cold fingers beneath the hunter’s shirts and gently gripping the handle of Dean’s borrowed gun. “You understand.”

Sam had gone as still as a corpse, which was stupid- because if he was in any kind of danger freezing up would be the opposite of helpful. He had been raised better than this. He _knew_ better than to let Nick tug the gun free. But when the gun was rested on the table beside his cell phone, Sam felt more relieved than anything else.

It was like he had been stripped of his title, whatever that might be. And right then he wasn’t a hunter. He wasn’t a kid who had been raised off the grid like some kind of survivalist. He wasn’t the weird guy who hid a switchblade in his boot, just in case. He wasn’t a freak. He wasn’t any of those things or fifty others that weighed him down when things got dark and he questioned what sort of man he was letting himself become.

Without his gun, folding down into the cool embrace of a man he obviously didn’t know well enough- Sam wasn’t any of the things he used to be. He was the crash of lips and the cautious brush of unfamiliar hands. He was the too fast breaths, the rough graze of teeth, and the rougher words.

Sam was lost.

And Sam was found.

And just this once let it all go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how graphically sexy to make this thing... not sure what I feel comfy writing and what y'all feel comfy reading. As such, next chapter might take a bit coming out as I sit and stare at it with woeful indecision.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many times this chapter has been rewritten. so, so many times.  
> The whole story keeps getting longer and longer and I can honestly say that I've never been wholly satisfied with my Luci. But it's a good goal for the next story I work on. A better, stronger, more incharacter Lucifer. I will get there.

 

Sam never got that promised cup of tea.

Perhaps he was in the minority, but he liked sex better than tea. As it was, he wasn’t all that broken up about it.

The two of them had stumbled to the couch, pulling jackets and clothing free, exposing winter pale skin- bare chests and arms exposed to the cold air of the apartment. Sam took a hard breath as Nick’s hands brushed almost gently over the smattering of scars down his shoulders.

“Look at this mess.” Nick’s voice was rough and it didn’t at all match the near reverence in his hands.

Sam would have replied with something evasive, but Nick… Nick had more tattoos than the hunter had originally guessed at. The inked sleeves of his arms trailed lightly onto his chest, the designs bleeding over the curve of his ribs, down his right side almost to a hip. And Sam recognized a simple black pentagram scrawled over the left side of Nick’s chest. Just like the gun, it sent Sam’s heart racing.

The other man followed his gaze and kind of shrugged. “I found it in a book forever ago. It’s called a ‘devil’s trap’. My young and wild self thought- you know, I’ve got quite a few demons I need to keep inside. Maybe it will help?” He shrugged lazily. “It didn’t, but it was worth a try.”

Sam didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. It was a horrible new feeling that threatened him. Instead of giving into it he kissed Nick. Not necessarily a healthy reaction, but Sam, much like his big brother, was well practiced in unhealthy avoidance techniques. And Nick grinned into the kiss, digging his fingers into Sam’s shoulder, nails slick along old scars. As distractions go, it was a good one.

 Nick, who had always been somewhere between possessive and aggravatingly gentle had used some of the filthiest language the young hunter had ever heard. It was no wonder the man had never made it as a priest.

The things he asked Sam to do to him.

The things Nick planned to do to him.

It was enough to make Sam shiver, whole body trembling with wicked promises. Nick wouldn’t say no. Whatever Sam wanted he could take. Anything at all. The blonde had made himself expressly clear on that front. Terrible things he begged into Sam’s ear, hands on his belt, rough grind of his hips.

Months, closer to a year than not, like half an eternity since Sam had touched someone like this. Since he had touched anyone. Since he had let anyone touch him. If it had been a woman it would have broken Sam, his whole mind recoiled at the prospect of being with another girl after Jess’ death. But somehow this was different. There were no soft breasts pressed against his chest, warm under his roughly searching hands. No trim waist or traitorous hips for him to grab. Nick was comfortably solid against him. Strong arms and slightly soft around the middle. Everything about him from his touch to his smell to his stubble against Sam’s neck was _male_. And if felt oddly ok. Right somehow. And maybe Nick wasn’t a surrogate for what Sam really needed- but he wasn’t part of the healing process either. Nick was a need that had lived deep down in the dark and neglected parts of Sam since he was a mess of a teenager first discovering that he needed to be touched.

Sam was fairly certain that he wasn’t secretly gay.

Or even bisexual for that matter.

He just wanted Nick. Wanted Nick to touch him. Wanted Nick’s mouth on him. Wanted every part of all those growled promises. He had wanted it since it had first been offered to his young, impressionable sixteen year old self.

Sam managed to stop blushing long enough to pull Nick back to the bedroom. They would only end up falling off the couch if they tried to do anything out here. It was far too short of a couch for legs like Sam’s. The bedroom light was broken, as Nick breathily explained, teeth never really leaving Sam’s throat, so it came out muffled- but Sam got the idea that there was a busted bulb, and he found that he didn’t care. The city lights streaming in through the window were enough illumination. You don’t need much light to undress each other. This was something that Sam learned.

You don’t need much light to do most things that they did.

Slow and rough and it was all touch anyhow.

Who needed to see?

Sam was sprawled out, half asleep, hot satiated lust still curling in his stomach, when he heard his phone ringing in the other room. Had it really been two hours since Dean last called? He nudged Nick off, far from lucid, boneless and warm curled against Sam’s side. Sam stumbled half blind and fully naked out to the living room to grab his phone. It had already gone to voicemail, silencing itself- but he called his brother back anyhow.

“Seriously, Sammy?” Dean’s voice was sleep rough and Sam got the impression that his brother had been sleeping. It didn’t surprise him that Dean would have woken himself up just to check on him, but that didn’t mean that he understood it. “You had one job.”

“I know, I know.” He sighed down the line.

“Were you sleeping?” Dean shared a gently disbelieving laugh. Obviously mistaking the reason for his kid brother’s drowsy tone. “Dude, you can’t just go falling asleep at stranger’s houses. It’s not safe.”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

“You’re not coming back tonight.” It wasn’t a question, just a grumpy realization.

It had never been the plan to return that night, but even still Sam found himself saying “I’ll be back in the morning.” He felt like a kid checking in with his dad- even though he had never felt the same warmth and affection for John as he did for his big brother.

“I still expect you to check in.”

“I know.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Go back to bed, Dean.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” But the affection was bleeding back into his words.

“Goodnight.” Sam said firmly, feeling like if he didn’t end the conversation now he would be stuck here for the rest of the night.

Dean grumbled something crude that was secret brother code for ‘I worry about you, be safe’, before hanging up.

Sam took the phone back to bed with him, setting it beside the pillow he had at some point claimed as his own. He laid down, running a careful hand over Nick’s shoulder, down his arm. The other man was lightly sleeping, breaths even and slow- and at the gentle touch he restlessly scooted over, giving Sam just enough room to curl around him. It wasn’t a big bed, and the two of them slept with their legs entwined, Sam half laying on top of the other man like a heavy blanket.

Honestly, he hadn’t slept so well in months. Even after weighing in the waking every couple of hours to text his brother little insults.

Hazy morning light woke him, offering no warmth, but Sam didn’t need it. He was lost in a comfortable tangled of blankets and limbs. Sore in all the best places. He stretched lazily, shoulder popping startlingly loud in the quiet of the bedroom. San Francisco was a loud city, even on the best of days, but Sam figured that the hush had something to do with them being so high up. Maybe they had gotten above the noise somehow. Worlds away from the mess bellow.

Nick stirred  ever so slightly, grumbling and hiding his face  somewhere against Sam’s chest, and Sam found himself smiling. Blushing with the memory of last night. He didn’t often get himself in this kind of trouble. That made it all the more delicious.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes, looking blearily around the bedroom that had been lost before in dusky midnight. It was just as sparse as the rest of the apartment. Bare walls, banged up chest of drawers with a tiny lamp. Little nightstand beside the bed, supporting a bible, a well worn wallet, and Sam’s cell. The whole room came off as more cozy than cell-like, but that might be simply sentimental on Sam’s part.

A yawn and another stretch and Sam found his head tilted back at an angle that let him see the bed’s headboard. Those blissfully good feelings suffered slightly, shrinking away as Sam looked up at the gun holster draped over the bedpost, at the very square back handle and blacker barrel.

He could see what he hadn’t the night before. It was a Glock. Hard lined, utilitarian import of a gun. A sick feeling crawled in his stomach, prickling and slithering. Slowly he reached one long arm over to the nightstand, picking up Nick’s wallet. Sam had certain suspicions, expectations to match that gun. Dark terrible thoughts that he didn’t want to entertain.

He flipped open the other man’s wallet, invading Nick’s privacy in the worst sort of way. And Sam knew that he shouldn’t, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

That gun above his head was a policeman’s gun. The wallet only confirmed Sam’s suspicions. Nick had a badge. Only it wasn’t police, because Sam couldn’t just fuck up in regular amounts.

It was a US Marshal’s badge.

Sam had once very similar back in the glove box of the Impala. Except Sam’s was fake. There were subtle differences, if you knew what to look for.

Sam knew what to look for.

Sam thought he might be sick.

Nick’s arm was warm as it slid around his waist, a weight once comfortable now horrifying in its possibilities.

It was only a few weeks gone that Dean’s mug had been plastered all over the news out in St. Louis, suspect for murder. The skinwalker wearing his brother’s face had been killed, but that didn’t change the fact that Dean had to be on some kind of police radar by now- if he wasn’t already for running credit card scams and impersonating an officer and who knows what else his brother had been tagged for in the four years that Sam had been away at school.

Nick had met Dean last night, kind of, sort of- and Sam had no idea if there had been any recognition. Just like he had no idea whether or not he had a place on any of those radars along with his brother.  

Sam was a good kid (mostly), who stayed out of trouble... at least he tried. 

But here he was.

Skin rough with dried sweat, body sore in all the best places, and he couldn’t convince himself that running into Nick been something coincidental.

US Marshals don’t happen coincidentally.  

Sam carefully slid out from under Nick’s arm, grabbing jeans off the floor and quickly dressing. He took his phone and his gun and hesitated at the front door. If he leaned enough to one side he could see a sliver of the bedroom at the end of the short hall. He could see the soft rise and fall of Nick’s back as he slept on.

What the actually hell was Sam doing?

Making one more mistake in a long line, he supposed.

But what was that saying, if it’s not broke don’t fix it?

.:.

An hour and a BART ride later found him banging with the back of a fist against a motel door.

“Wake up, Dean.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Impala parked in the wet grey mist, reassuring himself that it really was there, that Dean really was here too. He just wasn’t getting his lazy ass out of bed, or answering his phone. “Come on. It’s raining.”

The deadbolt rattled and the door swung open just enough to show Dean’s bleary, red rimmed eyes.

“Don’t gatta yell. I can hear ya.”

“I’ve been out here for five minutes.”

“Two.” Dean said with a curl of his lip before opening the door wide enough to let him pass.

Sam brushed past him, pushing a cup of coffee into his brother’s hands before shrugging out of his very wet jacket.

Dean didn’t say anything at first, just standing there in the jeans he had obviously slept in, awkwardly holding the tall white cup. As classy as his big brother always was, Dean had apparently fallen asleep in his clothes as well as enjoyed enough alcohol last night to give himself a hangover this morning.

“That’s not your jacket.” His brother said in a slow, certain tone.

The insinuation was as weird as it was absurd. This was Sam’s jacket, it had been for years. He brought it with him when he left Stanford. He- he looked at it closely, felt the cloth between his fingers.

It wasn’t his jacket.

He really hated when Dean was right.

He also hated the fact that Dean could tell the difference between Sam’ military drab canvas jacket and Nick’s military drab canvas jacket.

“Drink you coffee, Dean.” He said in a way that he hopped was very innocent sounding.

“That’s not your shirt either.”

And there went Sam’s very reasonable and believable excuse of grabbing the wrong jacket. Which was totally true, but now would sound like all kinds of lies.

Sam looked down at himself. Hadn’t he been wearing a black t-shirt last night? He pulled the collar up and smelled it. Nope. Definitely Nick’s as well.

“I thought you wanted to get on the road first thing this morning.” He hastily tossed aside the offending jacket, and grabbed a clean, dry flannel from his bag.

And damn everything, because he had left his hoodie behind as well. The jacket could be replaced, but the hoodie was one that Dean had given to him the winter he was fifteen, swearing that he would grow into it. It was worn here and there and had only the most minimal of powder burns on the sleeve. Only the smallest blood stain on one of the pull strings. The jacket could easily be replaced. The sweater was special.

Sam shouldn’t have dressed in such a hurry.

Dean was just standing there, looking at him, eyes narrowed just a hint, the corners of his mouth tight. He looked at his kid brother from top to bottom and for just a second his eyes widened the smallest fraction. The muscle along his jaw jumped as he let out a harsh breath through his nose.

Just like that, Dean knew.

He knew what Sam had done.

Dark dirty secrets that Sam never got a chance to hide. Never got the opportunity to lie about.

Dean’s eyes were hot as an accusation, but then he took a drink of his coffee, shoulders relaxing into something that almost passed as comfortable and normal.

“Yup.” He said in a voice too loud. “Got to get going if we wanna make it to Roswell before tomorrow.” And he ran a hand through his hair, not quite looking at Sam any more.

“New Mexico?” Sam felt dazed. They were really talking about a case while Sam still had teeth marks on his hips?

“Roswell _Georgia_ , where do you think, Sammy?.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Yes, New Mexico. I need to get out of this rain.” He grabbed up his keys from the nightstand and tossed them to Sam. “Go put the bags in the car. I’ll check us out.”

Sam stood there numbly, watching his brother slip into his shoes and shrug on his leather jacket. And maybe he just kind of hoped that he could exist in a magical world were somehow Dean would never know the perfectly indecent things that he and Nick had done- but that world was far, far away from the reality that they lived in.

They were in a bad place where Dean recognized in seconds that Sam was wearing the wrong jacket. There was no way that they could have gone more than a day before he guessed that his kid brother had spent the night getting lucky.

“Shake the lead out, kid.” Dean thumped his arm, a little too hard, but at the same time just right. Their eyes met for a second and in that exchange Sam knew that it was ok.

He had no idea _how_ it could be ok, but it was.

"I'll drive." Sam offered, because he couldn't stand the idea of sitting beside his brother for the next twenty hours with only horrible thoughts and beautiful memories to occupy him.

"Like hell." Dean laughed, but didn't take the keys back. 

Sam gave what he hoped looked like a smile, thought it might have come off a little sickly on account of he was rapidly losing the fight against his own anxiety. The other shoe was bound to drop and when it did Sam would be there (probably in New Mexico) with no sweater, and an angry, drunk brother hypocritically lecturing him about sins of the flesh.

Even if he didn't get to drive, at least he had something to look forward to.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to make some good note to y'all for like five minutes now, but it's all rubbish.   
> So have a chapter, and know that I appreciate everyone who puts up with my awful updating schedule which is sporadic at best.  
> I write stories because it makes me happy to write, and it's absolutely amazing to me that anyone out there enjoys reading these things.  
> It makes me happy that we found one another.  
> thank you, guys.  
> just thanks.

 

There was no good way to tell how long Sam had been looking at his phone. Just as he had no good way to tell if they were still driving through Arizona or if Dean had finally managed to push the Impala cross the border into New Mexico- though to be honest it was probably the prolonged feelings of horror that he had towards his phone that accounted for the loss of time and direction.

Nick had called him before they passed through Fresno.

In a near panic, which he completely failed to hide, Sam had sent the call to voice mail.

Dean had instantly started laughing, just a quiet chuckle that was all condemnation, but no real malice.

“Shut up.” Sam said though his teeth, hating whatever his brother was now thinking about Sam and last night and everything in between.

“I didn’t say shit.” But he was still laughing.

That was hours ago.

The man who had gone down on his knees last night for Sam hadn’t left a voicemail, but instead sent a pair of texts.

-hey. you took my jacket by mistake

-meet me for lunch. We can trade

As much as Sam would _love_ his clothes back, he and his brother were long gone from the Bay and Sam was suffering through all kinds of new and distinct flavors of revulsion at what he had gotten himself involved in.

Who he had gotten himself involved with.

The horror he felt in the unholy name of his mistakes drastically lessened the importance of reclaiming his misplaced wardrobe.

He knew he should text back, should say something. He owed Nick an explanation. Just a nice little ‘sorry I freaked out, but you’re a cop and before I came over last night I was sort of burning a body’. Or he could go with a more conventional ‘I’ve dug up three grave in the last month, just realized that that might cause some contention between us… what with you having a badge and all’.

…or maybe it was better to not say anything.

Neither of them had made any promises last night. All transitory passion without an ounce of commitment. To be honest, Sam had always suspected that those few hours were all the time in the world that they would be allowed together, and that probably accounted for the reckless nature of the whole thing.

No apologies.

No explanations.

But, Sam had never been the kind of guy who was comfortable with one night stands. With leaving before breakfast. He wasn’t the guy who ‘got around’, not in highschool, and not when he started college. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of people he had had sex with. It wasn’t a long list. After last night he was up to four.

Three girls and one guy.

Three women and one US Marshal.

He honestly didn’t know how to feel about that fact.

“How bad was it?” Dean’s voice came sudden and jarring.

 Sam startled, badly on edge. “How… was what?”

A particularly favorable guitar solo came on the tapedeck and Dean took a moment to drum his hands on the steering wheel instead of answering, his ring making dull little exclamations.

To anyone else, the modest hand shuffle would have looked casual and lighthearted, but Sam knew Dean too well. His brother was collecting himself, bracing for impact, because Dean didn’t do emotional, touchy-feely after school special colored moments. Which meant that the next words out of his mouth were going to be spectacularly appalling.

 “The sex, man. It must have been awful, right?” His eyes never left the endless spill of road laid out before them. “I mean, you’ve been staring at your phone for over an hour now like you’re afraid it’s gunna go for your throat if you look away. It’s gatta be your friend from last night and you’ve been a hot mess since you came crawling in this morning. Ipso facto, must have been some god awful sex last night.”

Sam finally got his mouth to work even if his brain was still a quiet gibbering mess, offering nothing that even vaguely resembled helpful. “ _Ipso facto_?”

“Hey, I used it right.” Dean passed a little white Taurus in the right lane, going too fast, but Dean did everything too fast. “So?”

Sam wondered if he could manage to stay quiet long enough, if Dean would forget he had asked such an alarming question.

“You just get too drunk last night and figure you’d give sodomy a try?” Dean prodded, digging for some unknown reason. “ ‘cuz hey, we’ve all been there. You’ve got to get over it.”

Sam wasn’t entirely sure he could say anything at this point. His throat had seized up at the word ‘sodomy’. Dean had that effect on him sometimes. It was like he knew every wrong word to use. Every damn time.

“Wait-” Dean’s eyes suddenly narrowed, darting to Sam, dangerous and dark as he misinterpreted the silence. “He didn’t… you know… did he?” That muscle in his jaw was popping, stark along his cheek and throat. “Because I will fucking turn this thing around, go back to Frisco, and flay that son of a bitch.”

“What?!” The implication was sickening. “No, Dean. _God_ no. It was nothing like that.” Heat crept up his neck, because the reality of it was practically the opposite of what Dean thought. Sam wondered with something close to hysteria how his big brother would react to the knowledge that Sam had screwed the nice blonde man into the mattress. What would Dean say if he knew that Nick had come completely undone with his knees notched over Sam’s hips and the hunter’s name on his lips? Would he be proud or revolted? Sam wasn’t brave enough to find out.

“Then fucking text the bastard back or put the damn phone away, because I’m not spending the next hundred miles with you sitting there like that.” He gave Sam some meaningful side eye, saying without so many words ‘not interested in dealing with your shit, Sammy’.

“You’re… you’re taking this all a lot better than I thought you would.” He managed a whole sentence, not a helpful one- but a whole one.

“Look- I _don’t_ want to talk about you getting your freak on. End of story.” He gestured his hands at the road, quick cutting movement. “I’m just less interested in you twitching and sulking around for the next few weeks. So man up, ya’ nancy. You made your bed, so sleep in it- and all that crap.”

Sam made a brief series of vowels before closing his mouth tight, grinding his teeth. Every movement felt jittery and awkward, his hands too big, his thumbs clumsy.

-sry about your jacket. but Im already in AZ. u can have my hoodie as a consolation.

He stared at the simple message for what felt like at least ten minutes before hitting send.

“Knew you could do it, Sammy.” Dean, the condescending jackass, said softly.

Sam made a rude gesture in his big brother’s direction, but said nothing. The bottom had dropped out of his stomach, leaving him gutted. He thought he would have to wait a few hours for Nick to text back, like he had made Nick wait. That was not the case. The Marshal must have been waiting for an answer because Sam barely had a chance to slouch in his seat before his phone chimed.

“That was fast.” Dean’s gaze darted over. “Guy doesn’t play hard to get, does he?”

Sam wanted to point out that Nick didn’t need to play hard to get. The fact that Sam was terrified of him didn’t damage the chaotic surge of lust he felt when thinking about last night. Truth be told, he would do it again if given the chance. In a hot second. At least one more time. Up against a wall, sprawled over a table, on his back, in a shower… any way he could get it. On top of him, in him, under him, any way, anyhow.

Sam was so very lost.

He didn’t even have words to describe how wrong his thoughts were. But they were his, all his, and he had been unsuccessful in dislodging them. For hours now.

He read the text, over and over, struggling to force the words make any kind of sense to his anxious mind.

\- It smells like you. I’ve been wearing it all day.

 _chime_ went the phone in his hands

-but not wearing pants

_chime_

-hope this isn’t a deal breaker

Sam laughed, the sound bubbling out of him like madness.

The one-two punch of last night and this morning had wrecked Sam.

He hadn’t even taken time to shower before they got back on the road. He could smell Nick on him, knew he could still probably taste him if he put his mouth in the right place. If he was flexible enough to try.

Yup, definitely wrecked.

“You ok there, kid?” Dean’s voice was more than a little worried, so apparently Sam sounded at least as unhinged as he felt.

“I- yeah. I’ll be ok.”

“You sure?” It was almost sweet to hear the brotherly concern in those two little words.

Sam looked down at his phone, at the vaguely indecent texts that had been sent to him by a US Marshal… or a non-priestly priest… or whatever was less traumatic to consider Nick. “No,” Sam answered softly, honestly.

“Well, try.” Dean demanded. “I don’t want to be left hanging during a hunt because you’re all broken up about your little gay adventure gone wrong.”

Sam bore his teeth, but otherwise didn’t respond. Dean was right. He was right far more often than Sam gave him credit for, because acknowledging it would only go to his big brother’s head. Sam needed to get himself back in order. He was an adult and his choices were his own. Good and bad. Mistakes and… and whatever the hell the opposite of mistakes were. Sam needed to own up to them.

So with as much courage he could muster, he wrote, rewrote and rewrote again a reply on his phone.

-sorry for taking off this morning.

\- me and my brother had to get going.

There was a longer pause this time, and Sam counted mile markers and Joshua trees as they slid past his window in equal numbers.

_chime_

-that’s a relief. I thought the badge scared you off.

Sam must have made a noise, because Dean glanced over and immediately the car was slowing down.

“What the fuck does he mean, his _badge_?” They hadn’t quite come to a full stop, and it was lucky that there wasn’t anyone else on this stretch of highway because they were practically crawling now.

“Look at the damn road, not my phone.” Sam hugged the bit of technology to his stomach, hiding it from sight.

The Impala crept back up towards a legal speed, a murderous tirade of emotions pouring over Dean’s features. “What badge?” His words sharp as glass.

“ ‘s none of your business.”

“Isn’t it?” And Dean was strangling the steering wheel, a substitute for his brother’s throat no doubt.

Sam kept his phone cradled against his body, as if protecting it could somehow protect himself, could protect Nick from the sudden violence emanating from his brother.

“There are _rules_ , Sam. You don’t fucking fuck around with the police. Doesn’t matter how hot and bothered they get you.”

“He’s not police, and that’s a bull shit rule, Dean. What about that lady cop in Huston?”

“What cop?” Dean’s shoulders sort of hiccoughed, jittering as he startled.

“Officer Milldon? Or Milton? … Martin?”

“Officer Morrison.” Dean was suddenly smiling, corners of his mouth hooking lecherously. “Damn fine woman, that Officer Kelsey Morrison was. She knew her way around a pair of handcuffs, let me tell you.” He chuckled warmly at the memory, but it sort of tapered off. “Except that was different because it was a onetime deal and she was off duty for the night.”

“It’s not different- and Nick’s not a god damned police officer.” Sam was splitting hairs, digging himself a nice roomy grave for when Dean inevitably figured out the basis for that particular lie. But that was in a hopefully distant and indistinguishable future and Sam could worry about it later. Or never. They were gone from San Francisco now, and he would probably never see Nick again. What did it matter what the blonde man did for work? What did it matter if Sam didn’t think he would ever be able to escape the memory of Nick’s hands, pulling him down, whispering that they were made to find each other.

Sam didn’t like to believe in things like that. Destiny was for saps. He preferred to pretend that he existed and drew breath in a world where he had some control over where and when he would end, despite the fact that he felt about as strong as the sea struggling against the pull of the moon. He could fight it all he wanted, but gravity was relentless and he would continue to rise and fall to its whims.

Maybe he _was_ meant to find Nick. Back in Alabama years ago, and again in a coffee shop on the opposite coast. Stranger twists of fate had certainly happened in his lifetime.  Though he couldn’t help but feel that there must be a far more benign reason behind it all. A reason that revolved around a hunt in St. Louis that had gone very bad very quickly. It was too convenient to be a coincidence.

Nick sent him another text, heedless of the turmoil he had caused by the last one.

Sam looked at it, but had a hard time reading as his hand involuntarily jerked, practically throwing the phone down to the floor board.

-is this a goodbye, or do we have an open sexting policy between now and the next time I hunt you down?

The phrase _hunt you down_ did nothing to settle the suspicion and paranoia that he felt about their serendipitous meeting a few mornings back. Despite that, Sam found himself entertaining thoughts of the next few months, of waiting for Dean to fall asleep so he could send naked pictures of himself to someone on the other side of the world. Sending one handed texts of all the things that he wished he could do to Nick in person. Sam felt shameful heat rising up his throat and he turned to look out the window, hoping to hide the blush before his brother could notice.

Sam thought that maybe he could let Nick go if he could still keep him this way. Just fleetingly, now and then between hunts, like notes passed in class. Dirty love letters just to idle away the hours.  It wouldn’t be weird. Dean picked up chicks between hunts all the time and by that argument, it actually made a long standing arrangement fall closer into the realm of normalcy… in a way.

-if thats something u want?

He sent back, because somehow just openly saying that it was something that Sam really, really suddenly wanted would be wrong. It certainly felt wrong to want it as much as he did.

Nick sent back, almost too quickly.

-I want you

-anyway I can have you

And Sam was grinning in spite of himself. How or why anyone would want him of all people was a mystery. He was all elbows and too long arms, legs for days, and a goofy smile. Nick was… Nick was some glorious creature who could find someone a hell of a lot less awkward and better suited for him. But he wanted Sam. Had since they first met. Sam distinctly remembered Nick whispering against his ear on a sultry southern afternoon- asking to keep him.  

And who is Sam to say no?

It wasn’t like they were making plans to meet up. Something like that was as stupid as it was dangerous. Dangerous for Sam just as it was for Dean. The things that they had chosen to do with their lives weren’t exactly legal. Good, yes, but not legal. Though no one ever said that the two were mutually exclusive.

-I think we’re going to try to make it to Roswell by tonight.

-I’ll text you when we get settled in.

That damning heat crawled over Sam again, settling down low in his gut this time.

Nick didn’t immediately reply and as Sam waited anxiously, phone in hand, jostling as he bounced his knee. He suddenly realized he had told Nick where Dean and him were going and his knee stilled. How could he be that stupid?

Great going, Sam. Tell the US Marshal just where you and your fugitive brother are going to be in the next few hours. Despite supposedly being the _smart one_ , Sam managed to make some spectacularly poor choices from time to time.

“How ‘bout we go to Utah instead?” He suggested to try and ease the clenching in his gut.

“What the hell’s in Utah other than a million mormons and a booze deficit?” Dean gave him a bit more of that side-eye that he was so good at. Obviously not amused at the sudden change in plan.

Sam watched a highway sign wiz past, cities and miles listed in oversized letters. “We could go up to Arches, maybe camp for a night or two?”

“You hate camping.” Dean did a good job watching Sam and the road in equal parts. Managing to sound like the most suspicious person on the face of the planet with those few words.

Sam glanced back at his phone, still dark and waiting. He wondered how it was that he could be so afraid of Nick while at the same time suffering first class levels of lustful intent towards the man. Life was as complicated as it was wonderful.

“I just don’t want to go to New Mexico.” It wasn’t a lie.

“You also don’t want to go camping.” But somehow, as he spoke, Dean managed to take the junction onto 191 North and they were leaving Arizona. Just like that.

Saying thanks would draw too much attention to the fact that Dean was rapidly changing plans just to accommodate Sam’s sudden whim. Instead he offered an “I’m sure we can find something wrong in Utah.” Whatever consolation that was. _Come on, Dean. I’m sure we can find some monster killing someone up in Utah. It’s what we’re good at, right?_

“At least it won’t be raining.”  Dean’s pale eyes darted towards the sky and its endless offering of blue. “We could get marshmallows and a six-pack.” He said slowly, like the idea just dawned on him.

“Just like when we were kids?” Sam felt himself smiling. There were many nights out under the stars, before he reached the double digits in years, where he and Dean would eat enough toasted marshmallows to feel sick while John downed enough liquor to make himself rosy cheeked and amiable. They were almost like good memories, though he wasn’t positive that he needed to relive the experience.  

He could see by the look on Dean’s face that that is exactly what they would be doing by tonight night. And Sam thought he could be ok with that.

His phone chimed at him and he took a slow breath before looking down at his hands.

It was a picture of Nick, or at least a pleasing portion of him, pale slash of hip and stomach showing where Sam’s hoodie had been rucked up to expose the tantalizing bit of flesh.

The phone chimed again, sending a short message in way of a caption for his amateur photography.

-I’ll do my best to wait.

Sam’s hands shook just a little, but that was alright, because it wasn’t out of fear or anxiety. They trembled in time to the pounding of his heart against his ribs. Sam crooked a knee up against the door handle, doing his best to relieve a bit of the tightness in his jeans. He honestly couldn’t say if it all made the car ride better or worse. Even if he was trapped in here beside his brother, doing his best to appear normal- he at least had something to look forward to.

Though, in keeping with the theme of everything up until this point- he had no cell reception once they got out to Arches National Park. So Sam did his best to not think about his phone, or that handsome man waiting for him, while he sprawled under a clear night sky, trying to find a comfortable place on his sleeping bag, one without rocks or bumps and divots.

Dean was already half gone, well into his third beer, stomach full of marshmallows and hot dogs and whatever other junk he bought before they drove out into the middle of nowhere. “Dude, you think we’ll see any shooting stars?” Sometimes Dean could get a little romantic. Those times seemed to coincide with alcohol consumption.

Sam settled his head back against his folded arms, looking up at the cascade of stars. More than you ever saw in the city, like they accumulated out here, as far from civilization as they could get. There was no moon out, but they didn’t need it. The stars were bright enough to cast shadows of their own, even without the campfire crackling merrily at their feet.

“What if we do?” Sam glanced over, seeing the way that Dean’s eyes were unfocused on those thousands of stars. “You gunna make a wish?”

“What the hell would I wish for?” He prodded Sam’s arm with the cold side of his beer bottle. “Already got everything I need right here.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but found himself smiling anyways. He noisily pulled another marshmallow from the bag, eating it raw like the heathen he was and Dean told him as much. So Sam threw marshmallows at his brother and they got into a tussle. All good natured, scuffing boots and sneakers in the pale dirt, grabbing awkwardly at each other’s shirts and jackets, laughing and swearing without spite.

Dean got him pinned, half off his sleeping bag, forearm over Sam’s throat without putting his weight into it. And Sam couldn’t help but laugh, because Dean was really heavy for such a small guy, all his mass settled into Sam’s chest, holding him down.

“Fucker, you made me spill my beer.” His big brother was laughing, deep and warm, not all that broken up about his drink.

“You’ve got more.” Sam had one hand on the arm loosely constricting his airway, one on Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah, and you know what else I got? A brother who went down on a police man last night.” Somehow Dean was still smiling, though it probably had more to do with the previously consumed alcohol and less to do with finding humor in his accusation.

“I told you he wasn’t a cop.” Sam on the other hand found nothing funny about this sudden change in topic. He wanted Dean off, he wanted to crawl into his sleeping bag and try and go to sleep and just pretend none of today or yesterday had happened.

“Apparently he had a badge, did he show you his gun too?” But Dean never knew when to quit.

“How are you ok with me having sex with a guy but you’re having a freak out because you think he’s a cop?” Sam was rolling as much as he could, rocking side to side, trying to get some leverage.

“Because I fucking warned you about the gun.” Dean did lean into his arm then, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind Sam that he could- not that he _would_. “But cops don’t wear guns off duty, is he a detective or something? We can’t get involved like that, Sammy. They’d lock us up for life for the stuff we got in the car alone.”

Sam managed to get a hand on Dean’s neck, slowly straightening his arm and forcing his brother to get off or get strangled. Dean made a raw noise and crab scuttled away, back to his own sleeping bag, all awkward movements and drunken coordination. He rubbed at his neck, eyes darting to the fire before looking back at Sam.

“It’s great that you got laid and all, it might put you in a better mood for once, but you’ve got to be more careful than that. The fed’s have me in their sighs after that skin walker in St. Louis. I don’t care if they think they killed me out there. I’m a handsome son of a bitch and someone’s gunna recognize me and start stringing things together if we’re not careful. ”

Sam sat, mirroring his brother’s pose, feeling at his throat, checking for damage that wasn’t there because they had both made a point not to actually hurt one another.

“I am careful.”

“You didn’t even use a fake name- for either of us.”

“I met him when I was sixteen, Dean. We weren’t really into the fake names back then. I couldn’t go and change my name in San Francisco.”

Dean’s eyes were slowing coming back into focus, the alcohol ebbing away enough to let him string his thoughts together- which wasn’t good for anyone involved. “He’s… how old is he?”

“What?” Sam blinked wildly, not knowing how to answer the question.

“Were you two fucking back when you were sixteen?” A murderous light had entered Dean’s expression.

To his credit, Sam did not yell ‘I wish’, but he did manage to blush, which he hoped went unnoticed in the dark of the night. “No. We met in a church.” He would swear he already told Dean this, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“Dude’s got to be like twice your age.” Dean pointed with an incredibly angry finger. “I don’t care about last night right now. If he fucking touched you back when you were a kid I’m gunna kill him, I don’t care if he’s police man.”

“He’s not police.” It was Sam’s new mantra.

“Bullet right between his god damned eyes.”

“He just let me in out of the rain one night. He was a grounds keeper or something at his little Baptist church.”

“And no one will find the son of a bitch’s body.”

Sam sighed, feeling as much frustration as affection towards the terrible burden he called a brother. “Look, it’s sweet that you want to protect me and all, Dean. But I’m an adult. What you’re talking about was all years ago and _nothing_ happened. He’s a good guy.”

“And a cop.”

“He’s not a-”

“I bet you money, Sammy. I bet you all the money I got on me the guy’s a cop.”

“You’ve got five bucks to your name.”

“Then I bet you five bucks.” He was so confident, cocky grin, somehow finding this fun.

But then again, they had always had a skewed sense of fun.

Sam knew, he knew deep in his bones that Dean wasn’t going to let this one go. He fumbled in the starlight, grabbing a beer for himself and twisting off the cap with a quick, irritated movement. He took a swig and scowled at the bottle, having forgotten that Dean had brought some kind of lager instead of his usual micro brew ale that was typically on the menu when they were low on cash, and Sam hadn’t braced himself for having to chew his way through the thicker drink.

“Nick’s…” he ran a hand through his hair, struggling to keep eye contact with his brother. “He’s _not_ a cop.”

“You keep saying that, Sammy- but I know your little word games. So if he isn’t a cop, what is he?”

Sam took another, better educated, swig and did a lot of breathing before continuing. “He’s a Marshal.” And he braced himself for Dean’s impending explosion.

But it didn’t come.

His big brother’s eyes went wide, whites showing before he made a soft noise of disbelief. Then he laughed.

Sam had been expecting Dean to tear him a new one, to rail him for everything he had done wrong in the last twenty-four hours, and Dean was laughing.

Deep bellied laughter that rebounded off the old stones around them, carrying too far into the night. A coyote brayed, startled somewhere in the distance and Dean choked down his mirth, eyes watering as he snickered softly.

“A Marshal? You-“ and the full laugher came back for a moment before Dean managed to get it under control. “Let me get this straight. You let a US-fucking-Marshal bend you over and-”

“I was on top.” Sam interrupted, because he needed to. Because he knew it would derail his brother _so_ fast.

“Oh god! Sam, I don’t need the details.” Dean paled, even in the ruddy firelight, he managed to pale.

“I just wanted to make sure you were picturing it right.”

“I don’t want to picture anything.”

“I thought you wanted to talk about it. Get it all _straight_.”

“There is nothing _straight_ about what you two did.” Dean said in the most accusatory way imaginable.

Sam grinned. “He’s got a mouth on him though, Dean.”

“No!” Pale and wild eyed, horror stricken at what Sam might say next.

“Like he was made to go to his knees and-”

“God damn it, Sam.” Dean threw whatever he could get his hands on. Food and empty beer bottles and clods of dirt all became projectiles that Sam warded off with awkward flails of his hands and arms.

And luckily Dean ran out of things to throw, and Sam was only marginally dirty, laughing because he had won.

“I don’t want the dirty details of the man going down on you. You’re my kid brother for fuck’s sake.”

“Then I’m guessing that you don’t want to hear about how tight-“

Dean practically roared his displeasure, a deep growling NO torn from him in every effort to block out Sam’s words. He kept up a tirade of negative sounds until Sam’s laugher finally died away. For whatever reason he didn’t find this as fun as Sam did.

“Look,” Dean said on a sigh. “You’re a dirty boy, and I’m kind of proud of you- but I don’t ever, _ever_ want details on your conquests. Got it?”

Sam found his beer which had been dropped amidst all the throwing and shouting, it was still half full and he grinned between it and his brother. “Deal.”

Dean shifted, uncomfortably, looking deep into the fire, trying to settle himself down. “But… a Marshal, Sammy? You fucked up bigger and better than I thought. Next you’ll be telling me he knows our last name and where we are.”

There was only the slightest tinge of guilt at that, because Sam had fixed his slip up earlier. They had changed direction, gone to a whole other state, and it was ok now. “No, next I’ll be telling you how he did this thing with his tongue that-”

“Enough! You smartass son of a bitch.” Dean held his hands up in surrender. “I’m calling uncle. You win, alright? You win. We won’t talk about your boy toy.”

Sam nodded, accepting his brother’s defeat graciously. “Got any hotdogs left?”

Dean glanced away from the fire long enough to frown. “I thought you didn’t eat hotdogs.”

“I’m hungry.” Even the processed mystery meat that is hotdogs sounded good right now.

“Maybe after last night your tastes are just changing.” Dean mumbled under his breath, little tirade as he shifted over to their green cooler and fished out the package of meat. “Hotdogs instead of hamburgers. And it’s gunna be gay bars and sausage fests from here on out.”

“I still like women, Dean.” He took the package away and looked around in the dirt for the pointy stick they had been using to toast things over the fire. He found it and shoved it in the coals for a bit, cleaning it as best he could before skewering one of the hotdogs.

“And cock.” Dean pointed out almost spitefully.

“Just his.”

“You’re gross, man.”

Sam looked up and grinned at his brother, pleased to see Dean return the open expression, doing his best to hide his laughter and failing miserably.

It was a good night out under the stars.

All things considered.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tell you what, I've been having a hard time finding a comfortable balance between cannon timeline and this nonsense I'm weaving. The struggle is real, my friends.  
> But I finally figured out how I'm going to put this beast of a story down. yay?  
> I thank y'all for tolerating me and my sporadic updates, and the reviews you send me (each one is like a cuddly internet-hug).  
> I will be going to visit family out of state next week, so expect another dramatic pause between this chapter and the next as there is no way my laptop is getting on the plane with me and I will be unplugged for a while. It's healthy. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

 

“So,” Nick’s voice drawled slow and lazy. “How much trouble am I in?”

Sam shifted the phone where it lay on the pillow beside his head. Nick sounded so distant through the phone’s speaker. Hundreds of thousands of miles or just a few inches, it felt the same either way. He was very much alone in the motel room. Dean had been gone for almost an hour, away at a local bar to hustle up some money and pleasant company for the night. He wouldn’t be back for a while still.

“How much trouble do you want to be in?” Sam didn’t have much energy left at this point, all glowing heat coiled in his belly, making him sleepy and contented. No real reason to move. Basking in the afterglow of the slow, well orchestrated session of touching himself while Nick whispered low and rough in his ear.

They had been at this for almost five months. Sam sometimes called between hunts or when the stretch of highway between towns got a little too long and lonely. Mostly he just texted, because mostly he was trapped in the car with Dean and making his brother listen to the things he said to Nick would have breached what little truce they had established on the matter.

To be fair, the rapid fire messages between him and Nick border lined on innocent, nothing incriminating shared. Over the past few months he had learned that the nice man who missed touching him had been born out East somewhere, was still in contact with a brother named Michael- though they weren’t all that close, tried to go to service every Sunday, and seemed to thrive on a liquid diet of coffee and scotch.

Nick was still out in Frisco, (practically on the other side of the world) and Sam had the notion that the man was working some kind of witness protection case, what with the occasional mentions of switching shifts with a partner- but Sam didn’t ask. It was none of his business.  He was honestly just happy to know that he and Dean hadn’t been followed.

All in all, they were nice texts exchanged- if nice was the right word to use. It sounded too clean, even though the words they shared were pleasant. Almost like catching up with an old friend.

It was the aftermath that felt less than _nice_. Moments like right now, when Sam was still slick with sweat, catching his breath, feeling the beast called desire quietly crawling back down where it belonged. Sam was an ungodly mess. An offering lain out on a dirty bed to a heathen god. Alone and debauched and quite content with the distractions that he had chosen to help keep him sane.

“I’d rather not be in _any_ kind of trouble to be honest.” Nick’s sex rough voice admitted. “But it’s been two weeks since you called last.” And a month and a half before that- though he didn’t say the words, Sam felt them hanging in the air all the same.

His breath hitch just a little. Knee jerk reaction, chest tight for a heartbeat too long.

John had died about two months ago, and to be honest, having phone sex with Nick had taken a necessary backseat in the aftermath. Dean had only just managed to get really good at pretending that he was alright again and Sam didn’t like to let him out unsupervised if he could help it. Worried that his brother would drink his liver into oblivion before stumbling into a dark alley somewhere and Sam wouldn’t find him for days- and then it would be too late.

This was only the second time that they had been apart since John passed, and the first time Sam had been too anxious waiting on the edge of his bed for Dean to come back to consider calling Nick.

Over the past months, Sam had learned just enough about Nick that he couldn’t be considered a stranger any longer. The conversations didn’t really go both ways however and Sam had managed to keep the majority of his life private. Sharing only the smallest memories from his screwed up childhood, only passing comments on the remnants of his everyday, never enough to be incriminating. Never enough to form anything more than a muggy background or road map at best. It sort of went without saying that he couldn’t share the news of his father’s death. Which rightly sucked, because it meant that the only people he had to talk about it were Dean and Bobby… so Sam had no one to talk to.

He felt like he had been shot in the leg and now everyone was doing their best to pretend it hadn’t happened.

But it was ok. They all coped in their own ways.

And he was getting better.

He was managing to walk again.

Even if it hurt.

 He’d gotten off easy.

Dean was still having nightmares.

“Hey,” Nick pulled him up out of his thoughts. “Did you fall asleep on me again?”

“I’m here. I’m here.” He slowly sat up, dizzy for just a moment. “It’s just been a little crazy lately.”

“That road trip with your brother getting out of hand?” His tone had softened, little thread of worry working its way in. “Was the world’s largest ball of twine more than you could handle?”

Sam felt himself smiling, wry little curve to his mouth like he’d been hooked. “It was a _lot_ of twine.” He pulled a pair of boxers on before picking up his phone. “Unsettling amounts of twine.”

Nick chuckled, warm as molasses, prickling over Sam like a dry heat. “Such things can drive a man mad.”

“Or to drink.” Sam had good memories of taking his slightly drunk big brother to go see that ball almost a year ago.

“Shouldn’t do that.” Nick chided in his gentle way. “You’re a bit of a lightweight.” And that might have been a gentle jab at the little phone call that Sam had made two weeks ago that he only remember in little liquor colored flashes.

There came soft rustling sounds as Nick moved about his apartment. “I need a shower before my shift starts.”

“Oh.” Sam hated this part of their conversations. He shifted his weight on the bed, ran a hand through his hair and immediately regretted it. Whatever was on his hand was now in his hair, and what was on his hand wasn’t good. “So… goodbye then?”

“I’m taking you with me.”

“Is your phone waterproof?” Sam laughed happily, then shut down, embarrassed by the little outburst.

“I’ve got a counter to put you on- which wouldn’t be a concern if you were here with me.” He tacked on gently. It wasn’t the first time he had made some kind of noise about seeing Sam again. And Sam had promised that the next time he was in the area they would make up for lost time. But that was then, and this was now and Sam only sighed gently.

“You could still put me on the counter if I was there.” He lay back on the bed, smiling idly. “I could get my legs round you and-”

“You’re really going to start that again?” But Nick didn’t sound particularly like he was objecting to the idea. “I’m going to be late for work.”

Sam was grinning now. “I can behave.”

“If you can, you’ve never shown me.” Again, there was no real objection to his tone. Instead he sounded fond. Happy with the situation.  

Sam had the sudden awful notion that the feelings he had for Nick might actually be reciprocated. The two of them in this together, just as deep, just as lost.

It _should_ have been a good thing- it was horrifying.

“You like it.” He had meant to say something else, almost anything else, but those were the words he found himself saying. It could have been worse.

A shower turned on out in California and Nick raised his voice to be heard over the white noise. “Wicked boy.”  It was… kind of like a pet name, a gentle sort of thing that he had taken to calling Sam- and it would be a lie if Sam said he didn’t like it. “You’ve given me nothing but trouble since the day you found me.” Again, that tenderness, like Sam was the world to him, and the trouble that he supposedly brought was all that Nick had ever wanted.

“Should I apologize?” Sam had that perfectly lost feeling that he always got when talking to Nick. Some things never really change. Some things you don’t want to change.

“Don’t you dare.” Nick sounded a bit more distant, finally in that shower, muffled by the flow of water. “I’m not sure at what point I managed to do something so right as to have earned you. You’re … you’re everything I shouldn’t be doing all rolled into one stunning young man and I love you for it.”

Sam looked at his phone, not sure if he heard that right. Positive that he couldn’t have heard it right. There was too much noise from the shower. Too many miles between them. Static and doubt and every reason in the world for how Sam hadn’t heard what he thought he heard. And if he had- it didn’t mean what he thought it meant.

“I had to go to confession after the last time we talked.” Nick announced as he turned off the water. _Last time._ Last time had been drunken and flawed and Sam had no idea what sorts of things he had said or done.  Apparently it had been somewhat spectacular. It was a shame to have lost it to his alcohol soaked memories.

“I thought you were Baptist.” Sam said finally, still in a bit of a daze. He was almost positive that confessionals were only a Catholic thing.

“I consider myself something of a nonpartisan.” Nick replied with an air of pride.

Sam thought he heard Nick smiling, but he hadn’t spent long enough face to face with him to be sure. He couldn’t read Nick like he could read Dean. Not from his voice alone.

“I’m pretty sure that only works for political groups.” He almost ran a hand through his hair again, but remembered why that was a bad idea and settled for shaking the hair for his eyes before crooking a knee, resting his dirty hand on his stomach.

“Were you ever really a priest, Nick?” He honestly had a difficult time reconciling his notion of a priest with the tattooed man and the types of distractions that the two of them enjoyed together.

Nick got quiet and Sam worried that he had crossed a line of some kind. Nick had been fairly open about everything that Sam had ever asked him- but that wasn’t saying much on account of Sam tended to not ask too many questions for fear that Nick would return the favor.

They had never really touched too closely on the fact that they had met in a church. Or that Nick had, at some point, mentioned having religious training in the same breath as saying he had been locked in the basement as a child. There were just certain things that felt best to be overlooked.   

“I went to seminary to learn to be a priest when I was younger,” Nick said like he hadn’t noticed the uncomfortably long pause. “It just didn’t work out so well. Apparently stealing sacramental wine, getting drunk off your ass and being found naked and spooning with a fellow choir boy behind the altar is frowned on.”

Sam found himself laughing at the casual way that confession was made. Rather loudly and inappropriately.

 “They were so mad- you’d think they found us sacrificing goats to a pagan god, instead of having a little bit of a hangover.”

“I have a feeling that it might have had more to do with the nakedness and less to do with the wine.” Sam advised, finding his mood greatly improved. He knew very few people who could drag him though so many rapid mood changes over such a short conversation. He wasn’t complaining. It had been a rough two months and he was more than happy to be… happy.

“Really?” Nick managed to sound somewhat surprised. “I’ve never considered that.”

Sam laughed again, tickled with the idea.

“As much as I would prefer to listen to that gorgeous voice of your present one stunning revelation after another, I must go. Being late for a shift is bad form.”

“Bad form?”

“My partner will be pissed and won’t bring me coffee when he comes to relieve me in the morning.”

“And you need your coffee.” Sam found he was holding his phone very tightly to his ear, not wanting to let go, even incrementally.

“Next time?” Nick’s voice had gone so soft, almost hesitant.

“Yeah.” Sam didn’t like this part either. “You know, _you_ could call _me_ next time.”

Nick chuckled, a rare, warm sound. “I’m afraid you won’t answer and it will shatter my delicate pride.”

Sam felt his stomach roll with uncertainty and something far more welcome. “I’ll answer.”

.:.

“That fucking son of a bitch.” Dean struck the steering wheel with a few well aimed, open handed blows.  “He was gunna kill me.”

“You’re fine.” Sam felt a need to point out.

“I know I’m fine.” He glared at his kid brother beside him. “You think I don’t _know_ I’m fine?”

Sam sighed, not that Dean could hear it, but because he needed to vent his frustration too.

Dean was driving about as fast as he could, hauling ass out of Maryland. He was swearing up a blue streak, still anxious from the hunt that hadn’t exactly gone according to plan, or maybe it was that he had almost been framed and then shot by a cop. That sort of thing tended to set him off for some reason.

Not that Sam was doing much better- but they had both been arrested and interrogated (even if only briefly), and of course, Dean had almost been shot by a cop. It was the sort of thing that set him off as well.

He almost didn’t feel his phone vibrating against his leg, he was jostling and yelling back at Dean, though not out of anger- it was just that with all the windows unrolled and the wind roaring, it was the only way he could be heard. He gave up with a growl and fished his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up like a dying star, almost painfully bright in the moonless night. It had been a long quiet week since Sam promised he would answer Nick’s call- and luckily for Sam this was not the moment that that call deemed appropriate to come. Sam would have had a hard time talking right now if it were.

Nick had texted him.

Sam almost smiled, grateful for the interruption. Happy for the little break in reality- right up until he opened his phone and saw those beautifully incriminating words.

-what did you do?

Reality didn’t have a nice little break- it was cracked and falling apart and there Sam was in the middle of it. The ruin and rubble raining down on him. 

-thereis an apb out for 2 brothers who look like you and yours

Along with being arrested yesterday there had been mug shots and reports filed and an official record taken. These weren’t earth shattering on their own- but it had never dawned on him that Nick would find out. How the hell had Nick found out?

Maybe Sam had just been kidding himself when he assumed that Detective Ballard wouldn’t make the report official. That she could just make it go away.

But she could have at least given them a better head start.

Sam felt sick.

“Who the hell are you texting at a time like this?” Dean demanded.

Sam looked up and he must have done it in a guilty fashion.

“Is it the _boyfriend_?” Dean managed to say it like a dirty word.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Sam said, but offered no better option, because he didn’t know if there was a word for what he and Nick were.

“Right.” Dean bit off the word, sharp and brittle before he yanked the phone from Sam’s hand and threw it out the window.

Just like that.

Like magic.

Phone in Sam’s hand- phone on the highway. Fifteen yards back, fifty yards back, gone, gone, gone.

“Christ, Dean! What- that was my phone!”

“And you’re using it to talk to a god damned US marshal.” Dean managed to sound oddly rational, boiling with unvoiced anger but oh so very calm. “Don’t think he can’t do that- that GPS tracking thing on your phone.”

“He wouldn’t.” Sam wished that that could have come out even halfway confidant, but right now he wasn’t feeling it. Nick knew. Nick knew something. Knew that the police in Maryland were looking for them. And wasn’t that so much more than enough?

“You think it’s a coincidence that he calls you right after we get arrested?” That righteous anger that burned in Dean like a furnace, the thing that kept him going, was starting to show through. Heat creeping into his words.  “You gunna tell me he doesn’t know anything about us? You two have been texting for months and he doesn’t know a damn thing?”

Sam faltered, still kind of shocked that his phone was now about three miles back in roughly a hundred pieces. “He-“

“Because if he hasn’t started getting suspicious and asking some questions about what the hell you do by now, then the man’s a fucking idiot, you can do better- and I just did you a favor.”

“You have no right to just-”

“Excuse me?” Dean finally raised his voice and the Impala was slowing down, creeping to the shoulder of the highway and Sam knew that they were in or a full blown argument now. He even knew what they would say, like it was all scripted out already. As unavoidable and inescapable as death and taxes (to be fair, neither held much sway over either brother- but no metaphor is perfect). Dean would say how he was just trying to protect Sam. Sam would say that he didn’t need protecting- he’s an adult. Dean would tell him he needed to start acting like it.

It would all deteriorate rather quickly after that.

And it did.

They both said some things.

So many bad things.

By morning it seemed like they had run out of words altogether.

They sat sullen with two cups of burnt coffee between then in a twenty-four hour truck stop outside of Kingsport, Tennessee. Silent for hours now other than ordering breakfast. It was the first real fight that they’d had since John died and Dean got the Impala back up and running. It was too long to go, there were too many things that had been building up for far too long and it had all come out last night.  

Sam was weighing the benefits of storming off in a huff, but he thought that perhaps he had missed that window. There had to be a statute of limitations on those kinds of things, and he was almost positive that dawn marked the cut off for such rash behavior. So he sat and made a point of not looking at his brother who still had a murderous glint in his eyes as he pretended to read over a news paper.

Sam could get a new phone.

He _would_ get a new phone.

The phone wasn’t the problem.

The fact that he didn’t have Nick’s number memorized and now had absolutely no way of contacting him wasn’t the problem either.

The real issue was that Dean was right.

No matter what Sam wanted Nick to be- it wouldn’t change anything.

Fundamentally Nick would always be bad for Sam.

He took a sip of his coffee, wondering how long he would have to wait until the deep feeling of regret finally passed. As best as Sam could figure- it had been six years from Alabama until California and it hadn’t been near enough.

Maybe seven would do it.

If there was one thing that Sam had- it was time.

Time to forget.

Time to get over the grossly inappropriate man-crush that he had been harboring since high school.

He stole Dean’s paper and ignored the less than subtle protests that followed.

“How long would it take us to get to Missouri?” Sam interrupted his big brother’s irate mutterings. 

That shut Dean up and Sam could see the quick calculations and maps running through his mind.

“Why?” He finally asked instead of answering, suspicion replacing the grumpiness.

“Think this might be worth looking into.” He turned the paper back around and pointed to an article about an architect jumping to his death from a building he had designed.

It was probably nothing, but Sam needed an excuse to talk to Dean, he needed some reason to move on from last night… and a hunt was almost like an apology.

Or as close as he was going to get until the sting of some of those words wore off.

 .:.

As it was they found hellhounds in Missouri.

But that was weeks ago, and many states away.

There had been ghosts, and demons, and vampires, and the strangest virus that Sam had ever seen, all sandwiched between then and now. And for the record, a shape shifter pared with an FBI SWAT team was a horrible way to top it all off.

It seemed that more than just their arrest record from Maryland had gotten around by this point.

The nice officer outside the bank with the booming voice knew a disturbing amount about the brothers, their dad, and what they had been doing for the past few years. Far, far too much. Apparently it wasn’t really possible to spend twenty years running from coast to coast, digging up bodies, killing corpses and leaving a trail of salt and ash in your wake and have _no one_ notice. They had made quite a name for themselves. John had started it, but damn it all if the two brothers weren’t bound and determined to make a legacy out of all this.

They left Milwaukee in a fever, going anywhere that wasn’t crawling with feds, and Sam remembered with stunning clarity the last time that Dean was pushing the Impala past a hundred, blurring over state lines. It was the night that Sam’s old phone tried to fly. It had failed miserably and died out on the highway somewhere between two towns not big enough to merit being put on maps.

Sam’s new phone was nicer anyhow- despite the fact that it was missing all the old numbers. College friends, takeout places near his old place in Stanford, people whose faces had been forgotten over the years and existed only as a name and number, one man who was all kinds of face and hands and everything other than a phone number. That last was the only one that Sam regretted losing. It was also the only one that he was actively trying to forget.

Things _felt_ complicated even if they probably weren’t. It was mostly just stubborn stupidity. Dean didn’t own the corner of the market on that particular familial trait. Sam could hold his own in that arena, thank you very much.   

“You keep looking at that damn thing. You expecting a call?” Dean managed to sound delightfully innocent despite the fact that he was still half dressed in SWAT gear, bruised and bloodied and gripping the steering wheel like it might try to get away from him.

“Shut up.” He said with very little heat, tucking the phone back into a pocket.

“You’ve got to stop mooning over him, dude.”

“Excuse me?” Sam was positive that his brother hadn’t just used the word _mooning_.

“He was a cop. How’d you think it was going to end?”

“Not with you throwing my phone out the window.” Sam grumbled back.

“Better safe than sorry.” Dean fumbled with the radio till he found a station between the static and a beautiful guitar solo filled the car. “We’ve got the feds on both our asses now. Don’t need any Marshalls too.”

“He wasn’t-“

“On your ass?” Dean asked with that same damnable innocence, and Sam realized that he had walked into that one.

“You really want to talk about this?” He asked instead of acknowledging his brother’s complete lack of tack.

“Oh hell no.” Dean laughed, but it was strained.  “I just need you to stop moping and sighing ‘bout him all the time. We can find you another blonde dude if that’s what you need.”

“I don’t need a-“

“You need to stop interrupting me is what you need.” Dean lightly thumped him on the shoulder, which was a dangerous move because lesser displays of violence between them had caused full blow fights under other circumstances.

“It was great that you found someone. You were in a bad place for a while there… we both were.” He added softly before continuing. “But you can’t keep a guy on hold for whenever you want to get your freak on. Not one like him. Sooner or later he was going to figure out what was going on and one or both of us was going to end up in cuffs. You want to fuck around between hunts? Great. I will be the first to congratulate you in your new and healthy way to blow off steam and maybe you’ll be less of a tightass all the time. But no long term commitments, Sammy. You know we can’t do that. I don’t care how cute he or she is. This isn’t the kind of life you can bring people into. Not even to the outskirts.”

Sam imagined what sort of car accident they might have if he just gave in to that beautiful desire to punch Dean in his stupid face.

“And no fucking law enforcement next time. Got it? I’m still convinced that the next town we stop in there’s going to be a road block with your boyfriend at the head, asking why you didn’t text him back.”

“Just shut up, Dean.” It was all Sam had to offer, because honestly? He had the same fear.

It might have been weeks later, it felt like days, maybe only hours. Everything on the road just tended to blur together. They were either driving, researching, or hunting and all those little points did was serve to roughly mark the passage of time. Uneven little rhythm, and Sam was in the middle of the dance. Researching. It was the part he was best at… at least he liked to think of it that way- the alternative was too violent to be in his acknowledged skill set.

So he buried himself in books. Local college library open all night to those poor students struggling through their midterms. Sam had spent a comfortable four years in and out of a library just like this one. He felt at home. Which was more than could be said for Dean. Dean didn’t blend. Dean didn’t settle in. Dean didn’t help.

He lazily flipped through an old book, not even stopping for the pictures like he normally did. “ _I’ve_ got nothing.” He dragged the first word out too long, like the start of a song, only to taper off in a bored groan.

Sam did his best not to roll his eyes. He loved Dean. He really did. Some days he just needed to remind himself. “I’m gunna go look in the reference section.” Or he needed to remove himself.

It was wise to know when to stay and when to leave.

“You do that, college boy.” Dean smiled up at Sam, tipping onto the back two legs of his chair. “I think I’m going to see if anyone here knows anything about this ghost.”

“It’s not a ghost, Dean.” Sam said with a sigh.

“I know, I know. It’s some kind of something or other- that’s definitely _not_ a ghost.” His chair thumped back level on the floor as he made eye contact with a delicately small and lovely Asian coed in a nearby study corner.

Sam sighed again, and if he kept this up much longer he was going to end up light headed.

The reference room was closed for the night, but that was alright. Sam made his way to the bay of computers with the intent of using the school’s database to look and see if he could point himself in a better direction than the mythology section he had already burned through.

Every computer was full.

Every one.

It was one of those obnoxious coincidences.

It was eleven at night- and even if it was in the full swing of midterms, there was no reason that every computer should be in use.

Sam gritted his teeth, because nothing had been going his way since they came to this town and discovered that what they had thought was a ghost terrorizing college students late at night, did not at all respond to salt or other things that ghosts should.

But whatever. He ran a hand through his hair and left the computers, looking for the card catalogs. The dewy decimal system was his friend and when he found the long, neglected room with its wooden drawers and old paper smell, he felt a level of peace settle over him.

He made his way to one of the rear banks of cards, a few rows in, pulled open a drawer and ran his fingers over the yellowed cards, wondering how long it had been since someone had bothered to find their way in here.

A few minutes later he was lost to the little letters printed and faded. He almost didn’t hear the footsteps coming across the grey carpets, slow heavy steps, and Sam felt his shoulders tighten, because he didn’t want to deal with Dean right now. He was in his happy place and his big brother had been doing his best to get under his skin for days now.

“Find anything good?” He asked without looking up, because it was easier to talk sometimes when Dean couldn’t see how hard Sam was rolling his eyes.

Dean put a hand on his shoulder, up near the nape of his neck, warm and solid.

Sam grunted and shrugged it off, not in a touchy feely mood.

Dean’s hand found his hip, and Sam didn’t shrug it off. He froze.

A hundred thoughts exploded through Sam’s mind, a Big Bang of ‘what the hell’ before he settled on the simple perfect understanding that it was simply not his brother standing behind him. With glacial slowness he looked over his shoulder, half twisting away from the card catalog. He didn’t know what he expected to find.

The non-ghost that they were hunting.

The librarian telling him to get out.

What he hadn’t expected was a sleepy eyed blond just a few inches shorter than him, shadow of a smile on a mouth that promised all the best and worst things that hedonism had to offer.

“I found you. Does that count as something good?”

“I-“ Sam made a soft noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between fear and panic and disbelief. “No, I don’t think so.”

Nick shrugged, still not shifting his hand where it rested against Sam’s hip, as comfortable as an old friend. “Pity."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the best thing I can do for all you lovelies, aside from giving you this little (haha) chapter (it was burning a hole in me the whole week I was gone from my computer and these past few days have been a small flurry of typing)- is to tell you that this is NOT the last chapter.  
> There is one more.  
> It ends happy(ish)  
> I promise.

 

The world seemed to have come to a halt, quivering on its axis. Sam wasn’t sure it was possible to get motion sickness when you weren’t in fact moving, but it was the only reason he could come up with for his heart to be in his throat or for his stomach to feel like it had just been punched. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think straight.   “H-how?”

He couldn’t form full, cohesive sentences.  

He didn’t need to. Nick seemed to understand.

 “How did I find you?” His pale eyebrows crept up just a little. His fingertips tightened, curling just ever so slightly around Sam’s hip, changing from resting against him to holding him.  “I might have used some… less than kosher means to track you down. I’m not exactly proud of myself.”

Sam managed another soft noise, realizing that whether or not he liked it, for better or worse, this was not the weird dream he kept having, or some kind of work induced or sleep deprived hallucination. Nick really was here with him, and Sam really was trapped between Nick and card catalog drawers 210 and 280 - which was a good and bad thing all in the same moment.

Escape was at the forefront of Sam’s thoughts, followed very closely with how nice the other man’s hand felt on him, the gentle heat of it coming through his clothes… and Sam realized that his traitorous body wasn’t going to be doing him any favors, wouldn’t be helping him out at anytime during this meeting. It had its own prerogatives where Nick was concerned and Sam had a sinking feeling that he had done this to himself. All those months getting off to the low, rough serenade of Nick’s voice- and Sam’s body didn’t seem to care that there was no phone involved now. It heard the call and it responded. Half hard already despite the panic still welling up from the weak, but logical side of his mind.

If Nick noticed he didn’t mention, gentleman that he was. He just kept speaking in his soft, even way. “But skirting the lines of illegalities doesn’t really bother you, does it?” It didn’t sound like much of a question, so Sam was saved from trying to formulate an answer. “I put a trace on your phone when you left Frisco.” There was nothing particularly apologetic about Nick’s tone, or about the way that his thumb had slipped beneath the edge of Sam’s shirt to make tiny circles against his skin.

“That- no.” Sam struggled against the distraction. “That phone’s been gone for-”

“Weeks?” Nick finished for him, a negligible smile tugging at just one corner of his mouth. “I lost you out in Maryland. There was a police report and then you suddenly fell off the face of the earth.” The shadow of a smile stayed, but he must have been gritting his teeth, clenching his jaw, the little muscles in his cheeks standing out in stark relief for an instant. “I wasn’t sure what to think.”

Sam knew. He knew what Nick _should_ be thinking, if not exactly what Nick _was_ thinking.

Sam had heard the charges brought against him. They were more or less the same ones that Dean had been racking up over the years. Credit card fraud was the least of his worries. He knew that they had been charged with everything from breaking and entering to desecration of graves. Somewhere in there were also bank robbery, murder, as well as aiding and abetting and only God and the Feds knew the rest.

If Nick had seen even only half of Sam’s record, he had seen too much.

Sam knew what Nick thought of him, because Sam knew what he thought of himself. Maybe he had good intent. Maybe with each hunt there were one or two fewer monsters in the world.

But at the end of the day, Sam’s hands were dirty.

He wasn’t a good person.

He hadn’t been for a long time.

But Nick was looking up at him, the blue of his eyes curious and intent. Soft echoes of the old warmth still there and none of the disgust or loathing that should have been. And everything that Sam was so certain of fell into doubt. How could Nick still look at him like that? After everything?

How could he still touch Sam like he was- the almost tender brush of skin against skin.

“That’s where the part I’m not proud of comes in.” Nick’s voice had dropped into a whisper like he was sharing a secret. “See, I may have stolen your brother’s number from your phone while you were sleeping.”

“When… when I was _sleeping_?”

“Back in my apartment.” The smallest light of guilt flickered through his eyes, and it was good to know that he could actually experience that particular emotion. “I was laying there awake, thinking how much I hated that the sun would be up soon and you would be leaving me. I checked your phone to make sure you had my number saved in it and…” his shrug was lackluster at best. “And I took down your brother’s number while I was there.”

It took a lot of willpower to finally lean away from Nick, putting some much needed space between them. “What the hell would you… what would you want Dean’s number?”

Nick let his hand fall away, leaving a cold spot behind. “Because six years is a long time, Sam.”

They stood there, roughly half a foot apart and it may as well have been miles.  Nick had taken down Dean’s number just in case Sam vanished again. He had been keeping tabs on Sam for months and when that trail went cold, he had moved on to tracking him through the GPS in Dean’s phone. ‘Less than kosher’ didn’t begin to cover that kind of behavior. Illegal was a good place to start.

Stalkery was a nicely made up word, but still fit fairly well.

Flattering, scary, and almost romantic were somewhere in there too.

If Nick wasn’t who and what he was than Sam thought perhaps he would have felt butterflies in his stomach, happy in a nervous kind of way at the attention. As it was he was fairly certain that the crawling feeling in his gut was more likely to be snakes or something equally unpleasant.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Sam could whisper too, hardly making any noise as he put words to the fear he felt. He had no intention of being arrested tonight. It wasn’t the threat that scared him, but the concern of what he would have to do to Nick in order to avoid being taken into police custody.

“I’m on leave. Didn’t even bring a gun or my badge.” Nick’s mouth twitched again, though it was considerably less of a smile this time. He raised his hands, lacing them lazily over the back of his head. “You’re welcome to frisk me if you like.”

Sam looked Nick over, head to toe and all those good spots in between. He hadn’t changed much over the past half year or so. Sleepy eyes and wry curve of his mouth. There were no signs of a gun on him, just clean hard lines and soft angles and he… he was wearing Sam’s hoodie. Unzipped over a simple tshirt, sleeves pushed up to bare strong, pale skinned, darkly inked forearms.

“It been years since I had a good frisking.” Nick offered with an awkward shrug due to his arms still up and vulnerable. He most likely meant it as a joke, in a transparent attempt at lightening the mood. It wasn’t necessary.

That damned hoodie. Sam would blame it later. He had just missed it so much. There’s nothing wrong with being happy to see your favorite sweater. Nothing. And if seeing the best sweater in the world fills you with such uncontainable joy that the only thing you can do is grab the person closest to you, push them up against the nearest vertical surface and kiss them thoroughly, well… there’s nothing wrong with that either.

Nothing at all.

Before he had a chance to properly question his motives Sam had a hand on the back of Nick’s neck, pulling him in, tilting him up, and Sam was covering the other man’s mouth with his own.

Nick made a bright, startled noise before kissing back. Even after everything that Sam had done… Nick still kissed back, slow as the Mississippi, strong as a fifth of whisky. It was short, but it still left the hunter breathless, gasping and wide eyed. He stumbled, pressing the back of a hand to his mouth. Vaguely horrified at what he had just done.

A stunned moment passed before Sam could get his thoughts together enough to blurt out some kind of a nonspecific apology. “I’m sorry. I-”

“No.” Nick cut him off too quickly, sounding angry for the first time Sam had ever heard and that alone was enough to stun him into silence. “I just admitted to stalking you halfway across the United States and you will _not_ apologize to me.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.” Sam managed to whisper, a bit nervous at the anger, but slightly mollified by the very fresh memory of the Marshal’s mouth against his own.

Nick laughed, sudden and loud and it died just as abruptly. “For the love of god, why not?”

“Because you’re a… who you are,” Sam kind of stumbled and cursed himself for never being able to maintain even the slightest façade of dignity around Nick.

“I always have been.” Nick assured with a small nod, a hint of affection coloring his words, which was far more pleasant than that touch of anger had been. “And you’re you. I’m not seeing the moral dilemma.”

“But I didn’t _know_ who you were.” Sam said and immediately regretted it.  He expected some of that anger to return, to see some echo of it in Nick, but as a sure sign that Sam would never understand the other man, there was no anger. There was no nothing. Even the sliver of warmth faded leaving Sam to wonder if he had imagined it to begin with.

Nick leaned against one of the cabinets, shoulders hunching and he was looking at his shoes.  “I wish I could say the same,” was all he said. And what kind of a reply was that?

Sam felt a wave of unease crash over him, perfectly sickening in its ability to wash away all those previous and minutely pleasant feelings. “You’re really going to arrest me, aren’t you?”

“I said I wouldn’t and I won’t.” He hadn’t looked up from the worn and stained carpet. “Not tonight.”

Sam wanted to ask why. It made no sense to him. It was legitimately in the job description of a US Marshal to track people across the country, hunting them and arresting them- and despite how much he struggled with it, Sam couldn’t begin to understand how their meeting could be for any other reason.

“Then when?”

“What makes you think that there will come a point if it hasn’t already? What else are you planning to do that will finally be too much for me?”

“I thought that the murder charges would be enough.” The words hurt Sam’s throat, burning like acid all the way down.

The Marshal’s voice had gone flat, toneless. “Those were brought against your brother. Not you.”

“Damn it, Nick.” Fool that Sam was, he had dedicated himself so completely over the past few weeks to ‘getting over’ the man standing in front of him he found that he couldn’t stop himself now. The small, self preserving part of Sam was screaming at him to shut up before he went too far- but it was too little too late and the words were already coming out of his mouth in an incriminating stream. “I was an accomplice in at least two murders. What more do you need?”

 Nick looked up, the color of his eyes like storm clouds. “You helped the skinwalker kill those women in St. Louis?”

“No! The police assumed that I must have helped who they thought was Dean at the time and… and…” the rest of that sentence got caught in his throat and he was left just standing there, staring at Nick like he had never seen him before.

It’s amazing how quiet a library can really be, even with a slew of students somewhere beyond the doors. It felt like they were the last survivors on the planet, just them and the elephant in the room.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, making soft, aborted noises. Sam realized he was shaking. It wasn’t a particularly helpful response. It was just all kinds of adrenaline looking for an outlet, though his usual options of ‘punch it’ or ‘run’ didn’t seem like ideal choices in this situation. So instead he did a marvelous impersonation of a fish, mouth searching for something to say.

“I made up my mind about you years ago and allegations of violence won’t change anything.” Nick’s voice was as soft as a psalm.  His impassive gaze had settled on Sam like a weight, unmoved by the obvious distress he was causing in the young hunter. “I know you, Sam. I’ve always known you. We are the same monster, you and I. I’ve told you as much.”

“How?” Sam finally managed to force out past all the other questions buzzing around in his skull. Despite the fact that it wasn’t horribly specific, it was still a rather important question at this junction.

“How?” Nick repeated the word without a hint of mockery to his voice.

Sam had never met any kind of law official that acknowledged that there might be something more sinister going on in the world, something beyond the scope and power of mere humans. The ‘how’ of the Marshal knowing was only slightly more important to him than just who the hell Nick was.

But something in Sam assured that the answer to the first would lead to the answer of the second, so it would have to be enough. Besides, it was all Sam could do to string together so many words when all he really wanted was to flee in a panic and find his brother. Nick had intruded into Sam’s world with a simple misplaced word and instead of a feeling of relief that he was not alone in one of the deepest, darkest parts of himself- it feeling like an intrusion. It felt like a lie. Like everything up to this point had been a trap of some sort.

“The… the skinwalker. How did you know?”

Nick watched him. He was really rather good at it. Blue, blue eyes following every little shift and flinch. Every chaotic sway of emotion that Sam couldn’t keep from his face. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost that terrifying emptiness, replaced with something that could pass for humor if you listened to it from the right angle. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Sam, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Hamlet?” Sam might have laughed, but it sounded odd and painful. “You’re fucking quoting Hamlet?” Sam had taken his share of English classes. He had had to break down Shakespeare. The line meant that there were things that even the wisest men struggle to explain.

The line meant that Nick wasn’t going to explain.

“Why should it matter _how_ I know?” It was the first aversion to a question that Nick had ever given and it startled Sam, who was already too close to the edge for his own good.

He couldn’t even say why it mattered. It just did. It really, really did. Sam didn’t have a way to voice that crawling, clawing, horrible feeling inside of him but he must have made a noise, or a face or something because he saw a shift in the Marshal.

“I’ve never lied to you, Sam.” Nick’s voice was as soft as starlight, not even a whisper anymore. “Please don’t ask me to.”

There was something close to pleading in those words and for a moment all Sam could do was stand there, marveling at the oddness of life- because he believed him. Damn it all to hell, but Sam believed him. Believed that the man looking up at him had never told him a lie. It was such an absurd statement it was almost impossible not to believe. Too outrageous to be anything other than the truth.

If Nick wouldn’t tell how Sam how he knew about the hunt in St. Louis, it wasn’t because he was being a cagy bastard. It was because he couldn’t. There are minute differences between can’t and won’t. But for the life of him, Sam couldn’t come up with a single reason why the specifics would be something that Nick _couldn’t_ share.

He supposed that was where the ‘more things in heaven and earth’ came into it all. There was no explanation that the Marshal could give. Not right now.

Nick reached out across those few inches which separated them but he let his hand fall before his could complete the movement. “You keep asking _how_ , but a girl’s got to keep a few secrets for herself.” His eyes drifted closed for a heartbeat and he looked like he was bracing himself, like he expected a gut punch in response to his whispered words. “You never asked me _why_. I thought that would be the first thing out of you. But I also thought you would be happy to see me. I guess I don’t know you as well as I thought.”

The idea stopped Sam. Honestly? Why Nick was here hadn’t seemed too important in those first horrifying moments of discovery. But if he wasn’t going to arrest Sam then…

“Why _are_ you here, Nick?” It was a good question after all. It would be a shame to waste it.

“I missed you.” He answered so simply.

Those three little words stunned Sam better than anything else that had happened to him tonight and he was left wondering how he had come to be here, so stubborn and still, standing within arm’s reach of someone who meant… who meant…  Within arm’s reach of someone who was beautiful and terrible and strange. Someone who made Sam want to start in on a tirade of ‘ _I missed_ _you too_ ’s  and ‘ _I’m sorry I didn’t text back_ ’s and other things that wouldn’t particularly help him out of the bad place that he had managed to find himself in. 

His damnably traitorous body told him to kiss Nick again- but that wasn’t going to help. It didn’t last time, and he tried to remind himself of that with mixed results.

‘Mixed results’ meaning, that like earlier, he found himself kissing the Marshal.

They fit against one another exactly as Sam knew that they would. His hands on Nick’s face. Nick’s hands in his hair. The pressure of their lips. They had each other memorized.

To his credit, Nick never questioning the sudden shift, just gave into every unspoken demand from Sam’s lips like he had been waiting for the opportunity. In exchange, Sam wasn’t near as gentle as he should have been, pressing the other man back against the card catalog hard enough to make him gasp- partially in pain, partially from something much nicer.

Nick kissed back like a prayer, like worship, and Sam couldn’t remember for the life of him why he had fought against this in the first place. This is where he belonged. He was meant to exist with that immoral mouth against his, Nick’s tongue sliding past his lips- hungry, slow thrusts, reminiscent of all the things that they could be doing if they weren’t in a school library.

It was really only the third time that they had kissed, fourth if you wanted to split hairs and call the brief lapse of judgment a few minutes ago a kiss (to be honest, Sam wasn’t sure how to count Alabama or California, but he figured just making them into lump sums was fair enough).  Despite the still newness of it, they fell against one another like old lovers. Bodies recalling where to go like mitochondrial memory. Like a ritual done a thousand times over. Sam knew when Nick wanted his neck bit. Nick knew when Sam needed his ass grabbed. And they each moved with a great respect for that knowledge.

 “Nick,” Sam breathed between kisses. His mouth feeling abused and abandoned as the Marshal let his head fall back, just the right height for the old card catalog to support his neck.

“Are you going to try and apologize again?” One of Nick’s hands was lost to the wrist in the shag of Sam’s hair, holding tighter than necessary, the other had drifted much further south, toying with the button of Sam’s jeans. “Because I will break you.” It wasn’t a promise of violence. It wasn’t a threat. It was an offer.

Old phone calls came back to him with all the heat and destruction of a forest fire. All the offers Nick had made to him over those months that they spoke. The proposition positively overwhelming when given in person and Sam found that he couldn’t bring himself to answer in words. Not without the safety of a phone and a few thousand miles between them. Instead he slid a knee between Nick’s, slotting their hips together as he took the older man by the mouth once more, all tongue and teeth, and not a single ounce of shame.

There was the soft _zip_ of his jeans and then one of them was swearing, soft little profanities under their breath as Nick rutted against his thigh. Sam didn’t recognize the voice as his own, but had a feeling he was the one swearing and cursing all those perfect blasphemies.

There was still enough logic left in Sam to realize how fast he was he was falling.  

He wasn’t sure if it was out of stubbornness or some awful sense of self destruction but he managed to pull away a second time. The result was the same awful gap growing between them.

Nick’s eyes had never been this color before, dark as a curse, almost black with lust as he watched Sam struggle to speak.

“I- we can’t.” It was a miracle he was able to find all those words and string them together in something that made even partial sense. He took some level of comfort and encouragement in it and pressed on- despite the relentless half conscious roll of Nick’s hips.

“If Dean comes looking for me,” Sam swallowed loudly, shaking his head. “He really doesn’t like you.”

“Your brother can go fuck himself.” Nick suggested with a surprising grin, the tips of his fingers slipping greedily over hips that should have been covered by denim.   “Besides, I left a bit of distraction for him before I came in here.”

Sam closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the other man’s, exchanging a short, sloppy kiss before asking “what did you do?” He was almost certain he didn’t want to know. There was nothing he could think of that wouldn’t result in Dean being pissed at him for days.

“I simply told two lovely girls, who looked like they could use a break from their studies, that my friend wanted to take them out for a drink but couldn’t get up the courage to ask them.” Nick ducked his head, stubble and teeth cutting smoothly over Sam’s unprotected neck, followed by an almost apologetic swipe of his tongue.

“You sent two girls after Dean?” Sam gasped, startled into a laugh, or maybe it was because Nick had finally managed to slip his fingers past the waistband of Sam’s boxers. Either way.

In one final show of stubbornness Sam managed to get a hold of Nick’s wrist, the other hand against his neck, and he pushed him back. His sharp breaths hissed between teeth bared in a reckless kind of grin. If Nick minded having a hand pressed against his throat, it didn’t show.

“You told those girls that he was your ‘friend’?” Sam wasn’t mad, he just found the idea ridiculous.

“I said I don’t lie to you. I never say my honesty was universal.” Nick didn’t struggle against Sam, though his hand did twist slightly in the hunter’s grasp, turning and flexing until the younger man got the idea and loosened his hold enough that they were able to hold hands. It would have been sweet if Nick wasn’t still doing that thing with his hips… or if Sam’s pants hadn’t been undone. Or a few other important little details that kept things very far from being PG.

Never mind.

It there wasn’t a good way to make the entwining of their fingers sweet. It was just one more avenue for them to touch each other that needed exploring.

Nick raised their hands up until he could kiss Sam’s knuckles. Soft, almost chase press of lips over old scars. “They asked me if I wanted to come with them… said that the four of us could blow of some steam before tests tomorrow.” He closed those dark, dangerous eyes. “I had to pass, but I figure with such enthusiasm, they should have your brother pleasantly occupied for at least an hour or so.”

They had already managed to burn up at least a quarter of that time, and Sam had a fairly clear picture of what they both wanted to do with what they had left. Except they were in a library.

He didn’t have keys to the Impala, which was for the best. He had grossly under exaggerated when he said that Dean really didn’t like Nick. It went quite a bit further into completely didn’t trust, wanted to avoid, might actually shoot him in the leg if he saw him again. Dean would probably have an aneurism if he found out that Sam had sex with the Marshal in the backseat of his baby.

He didn’t have access to the motel room that he and his brother had checked into that morning. Also for the best. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen if Dean brought his ladies back to the motel, only to walk in on Sam and Nick already occupying one of the beds.

Sam looked over his shoulder to see that the single door to the room was closed. It still had a large plate glass window in the middle, but at least it was closed with a good eight rows of chest high cabinets between him and all those diligently studious students.

And for the love of god, what was he even considering?

They were in a library.

Good, comforting well of knowledge.

Not a place for a quick and messy fumble.

Nick kissed his hand again, drawing Sam’s attention back to him. Focusing Sam’s swiftly tilting word down to a singularly dubious point.

Years ago, somewhere in the middle of a storm, Nick had stopped kissing Sam in order to laugh and voice the idea that he was probably going to hell for what they were doing.

This was different. Only in a technical sense. They weren’t in a church, and Sam had managed to survive into adulthood despite all odds. It felt the same anyways.

And Sam found that he didn’t care as much as he thought he should.

He went to his knees easily and was rewarded with an astonished noise from the other man.

“Sam?” Nick sounded uncertain, edge of nervous laugher creeping in.

“Keep an eye on the door.” Sam instructed softly, hands fumbling with the buckle of Nick’s belt, wanting to go quickly before he lost his nerve. He pressed a kiss into the Marshal’s left hip, the sharp bone begging for attention. As pale and flawless as the man standing above him. Sam had to leave ugly red teeth marks against that perfect expanse. Nick made a soft, whimpering sound, whole body twitching as Sam tugged at his blue jeans and boxers.

Sam looked up, pulse in the back of his throat, pounding a frantic tempo between lust and alarm at what he was about to do. And he didn’t know why he was looking up, except he wanted to see Nick like this. It was a good angle for him.

 “Good lord. If that isn’t the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Nick had an open blush high on his cheeks, breathing hard as he slowly tangled his hands in Sam’s hair.

“If anyone comes in- you say the safe word.”

“Safe word?” Nick laughed in a ruined kind of way, one of his thumbs running idly along the curve of bone over Sam’s eye. “There’s a safe word?”

Sam nodded once. “Funkytown.” It was almost a joke, and they probably would have shared a laugh if Sam hadn’t chosen then to lower his head and lick experimentally over Nick, tasting the salt on his skin. 

“Fuck. Sam!” Nick apparently was losing his more articulate words.

Sam glanced back up, straight faced as he could manage. “Keep your voice down. This is a library.”

Nick almost laughed again, wild and completely gone, but he pressed the back of one hand to his mouth, teeth dimpling the skin bellow his thumb, and even from where Sam knelt, it looked hard enough to hurt.

Surprisingly, Nick was very good at keeping his voice down. This hadn’t been the case in California or any of the times over the phone, but he did a spectacular job of it now. No one came in to investigate those muffled noises.

Beautiful little, uneven noises.

Sam stored each and every one of them away for future use. It had to do with the same lack of shame mentioned earlier.

It was over fairly quickly, despite how awkward it all felt, and Sam decided to take it as a complement to his natural abilities of being a cock sucking son of a bitch. Though he had a feeling that they few times that Dean had called him such, he hadn’t meant it literally. Oh well.

When he finally got his legs back under him, pushing himself up to his full height, Sam was startled at how much shorter the Marshal had become. Slumped and glassy eyed, a thin sheen of sweat on his grinning face.

“Wicked boy.” He whispered, voice horse as he reached up to touch Sam’s cheek.

Sam grinned back, whole of his body painfully tight, but he did his best to ignore it. He tried to fix Nick’s jeans for him, but found it increasingly more of a challenge as the man pulled him down into an agonizingly slow kiss.

“Nick, no.” Sam said without much conviction. “I’m all- that’s gross.” The idea of kissing someone after sucking them off was a bit much for him, but Nick only laughed. Obviously not sharing the particular sentiment or taboo.

“I want to see if you taste like me.” He ran his thumb along Sam’s lower lip, pressing against the light bruise that was already forming.

“I promise I do.” Sam fought against the desire to chase after that thumb, to kiss it, run his teeth along the sensitive skin. It wasn’t his fault. He only had two firm thoughts at this point running through his mind. Firstly being that he needed to do something about the painful tightness of his jeans, and second being that if he asked nicely, Nick would probably give him a hand with the first.

 He didn’t even have to ask, which was nice, and his mind went pleasantly blank as Nick stubbornly pulled him down into that kiss he wanted while his hands took care of the rest. Sam lasted about three seconds, which would have been more embarrassing if Sam bothered to care about such things. He was more worried about the unclean state of his pants. All secondary concern somewhere under the cloud of slowly ebbing lust.

“Fine mess we are.” Nick murmured against his lips, not much more than a rumble of breath shared between them.

Sam sort of hummed in reply. It was a good answer. He was rather proud of it.

“I used to have much better self control.” The Marshal managed to speak fairly well without ever moving his lips from Sam’s. “A pillar of strength was I.”

“Were you now?” Sam couldn’t help but smile at the idea. The first time they met they ended up kissing and rubbing against each other in a chapel. Maybe this mythical self control of which Nick spoke had left before Alabama.

“It’s those damn dimples.” He sighed almost wistfully. “I’ve always had a soft spot for dimples.”

“You’re still blaming my dimples for this?” Sam chuckled warmly at the accusation.

“I’ve got to blame something.”  Nick replied with a gentle shrug, hands firmly holding at Sam’s sides, comfortable and close. “I come all the way out here, important things to say and instead it’s zero talking and one hundred percent this.” The last word was punctuated with a single but firm tug of Sam’s hips so that they crashed together.

It felt much better than it had any right to and Sam found himself laughing again, a warm rolling sound that he could feel all the way down to his toes.

“Not that I’m complaining.” Nick assured, little smile in answer to the hunter’s laugh. “But it is what it is and you and those dimples ruin all my best intentions.”

Sam did his best to not be distracted by the fact that they were still firmly pressed together. Knee to knee. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. “What intentions were those?”  

“I just wanted to see you again.” He chuckled weakly. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

“What?” And Sam felt cold suddenly. Cold beyond what proximity could fight.

Nick was too close to see properly. Too close to gage his expression. Eyes like blue sea glass, and that was the sum and total of Sam’s view.

“ _Now_ we get some variation in those questions you’re so good at asking.” His hands moved slowly over Sam, fixing his clothes with great care. “I know I don’t get to keep you, Sam. I just wanted a proper goodbye. I’m selfish like that.”

His mind was still a lustful jumble, but he still managed to rally his thoughts into something like order. “You came all the way out here to say… goodbye?”

Nick only shrugged.

“It’s been months since we last talked.” Wasn’t the indefinite silence between them as good as a goodbye?

“I like closure… and I had to wait until my assignment in Frisco was done.”

A bad feeling ate away at Sam’s lovely golden cloud. He had no right to feel sadness at Nick’s words. He was, after all, doing his best to get over this man. He was doing a crap job at it, but he was still trying.

He had no rights to Nick, and he knew he needed to let him go. But standing here, leaning against him, mouth still salty sweet with the taste of him- it was a little hard to move on.

“Nick… I-”

“Unless you are going to suggest that we both quit our jobs and run away together, I don’t want to hear it.” He managed to make the harsh words sound so gentle.

Sam frowned, not liking any part of this.

It would have been best if Nick hadn’t come here tonight.

There was nothing good to be had from this meeting.

“I can give you my new number.” He offered, hands finding the Marshal’s shoulders, holding him in place as if worried that he might try to run.

Nick only kissed him softly. “You shouldn’t try and tempt the devil, boy.”

Sam made a weak noise, not fond of how Nick always talked about himself. It made him uncomfortable. It always had.

“If I let you go, then you’re gone and I pine for roughly an eternity over the one that got away. If I keep you then my strong sense of morals will require me to eventually bring you in on some of those more serious charges of illegalities.”

“I didn’t kill those women. Neither did Dean.” Old, familiar defenses rose to the occasion.

Nick kept that same gentle tone like they weren’t talking about Sam’s criminal record. “I meant the grave desecration and robbery.”

Sam didn’t bother denying either.

Nick kissed him again.

So sweet and careful, it could only be a last kiss.

Sam’s eyes felt hot and he didn’t know why.

“Wicked, wicked boy.” Nick whispered almost reverently before placing his hands on Sam’s chest and pushing him back. It wasn’t a hard push, more of a suggestion than anything else, but Sam knew this part. Even if he had never done it before, the concept was not foreign to him. “Go on now. You’ve got things to do tonight and for the rest of your life that sure as hell don’t involve me.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that. He did have things he _should_ be doing. There was something on campus thrashing students which really needed his attention. Hell, there was demon blood in him and that was probably sort of important to take care of in the long run. Nick was right, but that didn’t make his directions any easier to follow.

“Is there at least time to get a coffee?”

Nick eyes crinkled at the corners, a well restrained smile, his tone of voice was oh so serious and did not match at all. “There is _always_ time for coffee.”

There was a campus owned coffee shop open all night, catering to those poor unfortunate students who needed fuel for their studies. A cluster of small tables guarded the back doors and Sam picked one under a sweet smelling pine tree. Or maybe it was a spruce. Trees were actually one of those rare things that he didn’t know a handful of useless facts about.

Nick pulled one of the green plastic lawn chairs over beside Sam’s, and they didn’t hold hands or anything weird like that. Instead they sat, knees touching, talking in low, even tones, like old friends.

They spoke of high school- despite that they must have attended almost a decade apart, there were a surprising number of similarities. About family road trips and being trapped in the backseat with their older brothers which was as much of a joy as it was a torture. They spoke of family pets, how Nick had owned an obese Rottweiler and how Sam had always wanted a chinchilla.

Nick laughed at that, loud and startled. “Why the hell would you want a chinchilla?”

“I don’t know.” Sam chuckled, wishing that there were some flood lights around the little porch so that he could see Nick’s face instead of just a jumble of familiar shadows. “They just always seemed like cool pets.”

“ _Cool pets_.” The Marshal repeated, still laughing.

Sam thought that he had managed to shake more laughs out of the other man tonight than the whole time that they had known each other. It would have been much more spectacular and encouraging if Sam didn’t have that horrible reminder heavy in his gut that these would be the last ones he ever got to hear.

“They are cool.” He pushed his knee against Nick’s.

“They’re rodents.”

“So are rabbits.” Sam had always liked rabbits. Bobby had owned a few when the brother’s were young and he could remember sitting on the porch holding one on his lap, petting its long, soft ears.

Nick pressed back, the line of his leg warm against Sam’s. “Why not a rabbit then? Why a chinchilla?”

“Why did you have a fat dog?”

“Daisy was a beautiful princess. A fat, fat princess.” Nick pointed at Sam with his cardboard cup, threatening Sam into respecting his old dog.

“I’m sure she was.” Sam relented, hiding a smile in his drink.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Sam started bouncing his leg, just a little jostling twitch, not thinking about the fact that it was banging repeatedly into Nick’s knee until the man put a hand on his leg.

“Too much caffeine?” The blonde asked, fingers sliding a little too high to count as Sam’s knee or anything else decent.

“No. I… I’m just nervous I guess.”

“Nervous?” Nick’s hand was warm. Distractingly so. “There’s nothing to be nervous about at this point. We already passed the tense bit about half an hour ago.”

“I liked that bit.” Sam’s voice was strangely soft.

Nick chuckled one last time, warm and low. “You should use a little less teeth next time.”

“Next time?”

“With the next guy, I mean.”

“There isn’t going to be a next guy.” Sam was sure of it. What he had right here- it was a one time deal. Not to be repeated. Accept no substitutions. If it wasn’t with Nick then it wasn’t going to happen.

Maybe it showed on his face, because Nick leaned forward, close enough that Sam could see his gentle expression even in the wan light from the coffee shop’s windows.

“You actually mean that, don’t you?”

“I can’t say I’ve never lied to you,” Sam confessed softly, “but no. It’s only ever been you. It will only ever be you.”

“Hells bells. Don’t make this easy for me or anything.” Nick sounded stricken. Like this was the fight of a lifetime and here Sam was, cutting his hamstrings. Taking his legs out from under him. 

“I can still give you my new number.” He offered again, knowing it was stupid to put such a thing on the table at this point.   

“No.” The Marshal said too quickly. “And have your brother get a new phone too, just in case I find myself in a moment of weakness one night and decide to hunt you down for sentimental reasons.” He took his hand from Sam’s leg and the hunter had never felt so cold. “I want a clean break. It’ll make it heal faster.”

“Why did you come back at all then?” Tonight would make things so much harder for Sam. It would live on in memory, vivid Technicolor for months and years to come. It didn’t matter how much coffee he drank- he couldn’t rid himself of the taste of Nick. It didn’t matter how much time would pass- he couldn’t shake the feeling of Nick’s fingers running along his scalp. Sam had been doomed with the first step he had taken into that church years ago. This was just the final nail in the coffin.

“I told you, I missed you. I’m sorry it’s not more complicated than that. I’m a fairly simple man.”

“And next time you miss me?”

“I will pour myself a strong drink and try to think of other things.” He said firmly, like he was trying to remind himself of the rules that had been laid out for him.

Sam tightened his grip around his cup, long fingers touching on either side. He focused as hard as he could on that cup, struggling to find the perfect words. “You shouldn’t have come here.” Came out instead.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Nick slumped, settling deeper into the shadows of the sheltering tree. “But here I am anyways. The mind is willing to stay away, Sam, but the body is weak. Especially when it finds itself close to your body.”

Sam was worried that he was strangling his cup and he set it down on the table before he squeezed too hard and popped the lid off or something equally awkward.

“I’m a sinful man, and unfortunately you are quite my favorite sin.” He set his cup down beside Sam’s, close enough that they touched. “But I am also a repentant man.” He stood, taller than Sam now, pulling away from their little corner. “And I should go before I make this any worse.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Sam heard his own voice asking, “what about a good night kiss?”

Nick made a bad noise and turned his face away, looking out at the lawns and poorly lit pathways. When he finally spoke his voice sounded hollow. “Isn’t that how it all got started?”

“I’m surprised you remember that.” Sam didn’t sound much better. He had never been all that good at goodbyes.

Apparently neither was Nick, because Sam thought that he heard the man mutter ‘god damn you’ under his breath. Thought that couldn’t have been right, because Nick had turned back to him, caught him firmly by the shirt collar and kissed him. Sam’s hands fumbled in a moment of panic, terrified that if he wasn’t fast enough he would miss this window. He got two handfuls of hoodie and leaned up into one of the worst kisses that he had ever had the pleasure of.

“Good night, Sam.” Nick whispered against his mouth.

Sam didn’t answer. Maybe if he said nothing then they could just stay here.

“Good night, Sam.” Nick repeated as he slowly let go.

Sam watched him walk away, fading in and out of the pale halos of light that lined the campus walkways until he slipped off into the shadow lands that were the parking lot. Gone, gone, gone.

 Sam finished his coffee in silence. It was another hour before he heard the familiar sound of the Impala’s engines, and a few minutes later there was his big brother swaggering his way down the sidewalk towards the library.

“Dean!” Sam called out, his voice weirdly strained.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean grinned and veered off the path to join him. “You’ll never believe what happened to me.” He wore a cheeky grin, hair a little mussed, eyes a little wild. “Aw, you even got me a coffee.” And before Sam could argue, Dean had grabbed up Nick’s abandoned drink. “You got me a half cup of cold coffee?”

“I got you a half cup of coffee.” He said in soft agreement.

Dean shrugged and sat down beside his kid brother, stealing Nick’s chair, just like he had taken the coffee. He proceeded to tell Sam about the two gorgeous girls who had come and asked him to take them out for a drinks. Sam was only half listening and earned himself a firm stomp to his left foot.

“You can’t be that pissed at me for leaving, Sam.” Dean grumbled. “I texted you.”

Apparently his big brother was misinterpreting the lack of response. Sam wasn’t angry, he was gutted. Empty and broken feeling.

“I got your text.” It had been short and to the point, just like the man who had sent it. _Had to step out. Keep up the studying._ “It’s just been a long night.”

“You wanna’ head back to the motel? “ Dean couldn’t help himself, pathological caregiver that he was. Sam needed something and there he was to provide.

Sam didn’t deserve such a brother.

He didn’t deserve a lot of things apparently. He stood and tossed his cup in a garbage bin, wondering if he asked for Nick, if his big brother would somehow fetch him.

They got back to the motel and at least one of them got a good night’s sleep that night.

Two days later and the brothers dispatched the non-ghost, which had incidentally been some kind of Chinese demon which was tied to an ancient teapot that the head of the Asian Studies department had brought back from sabbatical. It wasn’t the weirdest thing that the Winchesters had had to kill- but it was definitely high on the list.

When it was all said and done, Sam felt dead on his feet, which may have had something to do with the fact that he had had his clock well and thoroughly clean by the stupid monster. It was bad enough that Dean wanted to take him to the emergency room. Apparently he could do the stitches on his own, but setting Sam’s broken arm, and seeing to his concussion was beyond Dean’s triage abilities.

The next afternoon saw Sam in a cast and loaded up on enough pain killers that he finally slept for the first time in days.

He was a bit better after that.

Dean _made_ him be better after that. Never really understanding, or questioning why Sam had suddenly abandoned all sense or skill and almost got himself killed by an evil, haunted teapot. He just did his brotherly duties and kept Sam among the living for as long as he could.

Which was for about six months.

Despite Dean’s best efforts he wasn’t fast enough to save his kid brother from getting stabbed in the back- and not in a symbolic way or anything so nice, but in a very real and honest way which involved a shank lodged in his spine.

Sam died.

And Sam lived.

And Dean heard the braying of hounds.

He really was the best kind of big brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> such promises.  
> Let me just have one more time lapse for old times sake.  
> Just a little one.
> 
>  
> 
> You guys are so good to me.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all y'all who decided that this ride was worth coming along for.  
> I wrote this for you.  
> The original story was meant to be 3 chapters long. They were going to meet in a church, things would get a bit dodgy, and Sam would leave in a bit of a daze.  
> I suppose I kept to that idea at some points while still getting horribly lost.  
> Best laid plans and all that.
> 
> Along those lines I've got plans up my sleeve for like 3ish other stories with these two fools.  
> One in the 50's with classy cars and stupid brothers. One in California with demons and teenage tomfoolery, and one that I guess is just an AU with nothing sinister going on besides a blind date that gets out of hand.  
> I don't know in what order or when these will fall, but I hope to see you guys again as they do.
> 
> Goodnight.  
> and thanks again

 

God damn Dean.

What kind of a selfish son of a bitch could… could… just leave Sam like _this_?

The world was ending, or at very least, his world was. How was Sam supposed to make this right?

He was alone.

He had never been alone before. Not really.

Even when he left for Stanford, even after he demanded that his big brother let him be, even in those two years when he was finally free of his family, he still knew they were out there somewhere. He _knew_ that all he had to do was call his brother and there his brother would be. There Dean would always be.

But he was gone now, dragged down to the lowest, darkest, depths of hell- all for what? In exchange for Sam’s life?

No one had ever asked Dean to do something so horrible. Sam wasn’t worth it. What good was he to anyone now?

Dean was dead and Sam wasn’t- and the only thing that the world had to show for that spectacular trade was one broken hunter who wasn’t worth the dust on the feet of those who hang.

It had been two days and all he had been able to feel since putting Dean in the ground was this horrible blankness. A great and glorious nothing where he knew that all bad things should dwell inside him. But there was _nothing_.

It would be very difficult to drag Dean back to the land of the living if Sam were falling to pieces, and he thought that perhaps  his brain was doing it damndest to keep him sane, to keep him going a little longer.

Bobby had let him alone in Illinois. Left him to bury his brother. The loose dirt had been easy to move with all the rain coming down and Sam hadn’t minded. It suited his mood anyhow, bleak and grey.

There was only one thought crawling over him as he dug, looping again and again like a scratched record.

He would find a way to get his brother back.

He would raise hell, literally if that’s what it took.

He would even sell his soul if anyone would buy it.

If Dean could do it, why couldn’t Sam?

Sure, nothing the youngest Winchester had been able to come up with to this point had stood a chance at breaking the deal with that crossroad demon, and by the end of it all he had a horrible feeling that this was somehow what Dean had wanted. Maybe his brother had just gotten tired of it all, of the hunting, of the killing, of the monster of the week trying to tear them limb from limb.

Lord knew that Sam was tired of it too.

But Dean hadn’t let him die and Sam _had_ to return that one last favor.

He couldn’t be alone.

He just couldn’t.

So he drove, he drove for almost two days, and the Impala had never felt so unwelcoming before.

Looking back, he supposed that the aim was to make it to Sioux Falls, he had promised Bobby that he would catch up after he took care of his brother… that he just needed some time to get himself in order- but he never got all that far. Maybe it was the rain, or the fact that his eyes didn’t seem to be working right- just freaking over active tear ducts or something (he might consider going to a doctor if it didn’t clear up on its own) and the road kept blurring in and out of his vision.

The pale sunlight only served to make the clouds slightly less grey as the rain kept coming down and down in sheets. Sam didn’t notice that the gas gage was so low; he had more important things to occupy his mind than how many miles ago he had filled up the tank.

It was an absolutely idiotic reason to break down on the side of the road- and all Sam could think was how mad Dean would be if he knew how Sam was treating his baby.

For almost an hour, it was all Sam did. Imagining his brother’s disapproving tone, the familiar downward angle his mouth would take, the tired old name calling.

Something cold and awful coiled up in the nothing that resided deep in Sam, and for a heartbeat he felt crippled as he teetered on the edge before pulling himself back. 

God, but he was coming apart at the seams.

There was no umbrella in the car, because why would there be an umbrella? So Sam pulled up the collar of his jacket and started walking along the shoulder of the road. The last gas station had been miles back and he had managed to breakdown somewhere seemingly between towns with only trees and mile markers to break up the wet landscape. Two miles into his fairly moist walk he started wonder why it was that he hadn’t tried calling AAA or something else that would have kept him relatively out of the rain.

Hindsight was not his friend.

In the distance, through the misty grey, he saw a farm house. A little split level affair in need of a new coat of paint, surrounded by old trees and knee high grass bent down under the weight of the rain. It wasn’t anything beautiful or special, but there were lights on and in this storm it was like a welcoming port, calling him into a last safe haven.

Maybe he could get a ride back into town. It was the middle of nowhere America, there had to be some gentle folk in the house who would take pity on the man who was soaked to the bone, shivering, broken down on the side of the road.

His sneakers sank into the unpaved drive and he made some vague effort to wipe the majority of the reddish brown mud off on the grass before walking up the steps to the relative shelter of the porch. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face and trying to find a sympathetic expression to wear. He knew he must look like an oversized drowned puppy at this point and he could work that into his favor. Big, nonthreatening man that he was.

It’s difficult to say who was more surprised when the door opened to Sam’s polite knocks, him or Nick.

They two of them stood staring at one another through the screen door while the rain came down in a relentless drizzle of white noise.

It was somewhere between two minutes and a week before one of them finally managed to say something.

“You’ve got glasses.”

“Just for reading.” Nick answered in a brittle voice, one hand self-consciously coming up to tug off a pair of black framed lenses.

Sam blinked, startled by the reply, only then realizing that he had said anything to begin with.

The silence returned, not any less awkward or strained.

“If I’m interrupting I can…”

“You can what- come back later?” Nick didn’t sound like he was making a suggestion, he sounded like he was making a joke. A horrible joke that he didn’t even find humor in. “It’s raining like hell. You’re coming inside.” He pushed open the screen door, and Sam had to sidestep to get out of the way.

Before he knew it he was standing inside, dripping puddles on worn floorboards, while Nick helped him struggle out of his wet coat.

“ _going out in this kind of weather_.” The Marshal kept up a quiet tirade under his breath while he lay the coat over a little wooden table that was probably supposed to keep keys and other little things. Then he was back, working down the buttons of Sam’s flannel, pulling it off his shoulders, tugging it down his arms, leaving him standing in just a tshirt which offered no protection or warmth of its own. “ _Didn’t see your car, but you can’t be dumb enough to walk”._ He huffed to himself, seemingly unaware that he was talking at all. “ _Middle of fuckin’ nowhere, and here you are on my doorstep, don’t have the sense you were born with-“_

Nick left him standing there, walking off down a hall, muttering the whole while, only to return with a pale blue towel which he tossed over the hunter’s head.

Sam hadn’t moved. He wasn’t even sure at what point that he had taken the steps needed to even get inside, but here he was, and here was Nick of all people, scrubbing the excess water from his hair with as much tenderness as a concerned mother.

It wasn’t long before Sam had enough. He grabbed hold of Nick’s arms and shook himself free of the towel.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was strained, begging. He needed some kind of sense and logic in the fallout shelter that his life had become.

“I live here.” Nick said slow and careful, his eyes watching every little tick of emotion that stirred through Sam. “But I could ask you the same question.” He bunched the towel between his hands, hard, agitated little movements that said so much more than his words. “I _should_ ask you the same question.”

Sam found it strangely hard to not watch the other man’s hands. They were rough hands, working hands, Sam knew how they would feel against his skin. It had been over a year and Sam still remembered exactly how those hands would feel running over the curve of his ribs. “My car broke down… about two miles up the road.”

“That’s the best story you could come up with?” Nick set the towel down on Sam’s discarded jacket and flannel.

“It’s the truth.” Sam said weakly.

Nick watched him in silence for a painfully long moment. “Come on, I’ll make you something hot to drink.” He walked back off down the hall, not waiting to see if he was being followed.

After a few oddly painful breaths, Sam wiggled out of his wet shoes and socks and walked quietly after the other man.

It was a big kitchen, large enough that it should have belonged to a whole family, not just a single sleepy eyed blonde man. The table was big enough for a healthy heard of kids to sit around and Sam felt oddly small and out of place sitting there, watching Nick’s back as he made a pot of coffee.

“You know,” Nick’s voice was so soft and low that you could hardly hear him over the drumming of rain against the siding. “I’ve never owned a coffee maker before. Figured if I didn’t give myself easy access to it, it would help with the little addiction I’ve got.” He sighed and drummed his fingers against the counter, not turning around to see the other man while he spoke to him. “But Sharon at the office, she ordered us a new one a while back and insisted that I take the old one home. It’s horrible for me… these addictions that I have. And it might be paranoia, but it feels like the world is working against me sometimes. Just giving me all the things that I shouldn’t have.”

Sam managed to pry his eyes away from Nick’s back, looking down at his own hands where they were splayed over the table top. “Are you comparing me to a coffee maker?”

Nick laughed.

It was the first good noise that Sam had heard in two days.

It almost made him smile, but he just didn’t have it in him.

“Maybe.” The Marshal retrieved two mugs from the dishwasher and poured them both full of the coffee that was scenting the whole room rich and warm. “You know… I don’t know how you take your coffee. You’ve never stayed for breakfast.”

Even though Nick had never once, not even for a second done or said anything cruel or spiteful in Sam’s direction, there was something biting and sharp to his words.

Sam didn’t answer, he was afraid if he opened his mouth it wouldn’t be the words ‘milk and a bit of sugar if you have it’ that would come out of him.

Nick finally turned to look at him for the first time since leaving the hall, mug in each hand. His eyes were soft and the unspoken affection held there in cut at Sam.

He had to look away.

Dean knew how Sam liked his coffee.

How messed up was that? Sam was immediately back on the verge of that terrible tumbling feeling he had had back in the car, all because if Dean was still here he would have snidely answered for him. Sam would have given just about anything to hear his brother’s voice right then.

Instead, Sam focused on the dirt beneath his fingernails.

Quietly a mug was placed in front of him, easily within arm’s reach.

Nick about as far away as the table would allow, holding his own mug close to his chest like protection and some more of that well measured silence stretched out between them, it was becoming almost comfortable, familiar.

Sam didn’t need to look up and see expression on the other man, just as Nick didn’t need to actually say the words. A question hung, ugly and weighted in the air between them.

He ignored it as long as he could, watching the ribbons of steam curl up from the chipped mug. He didn’t have to answer. No one would force it out of him. Nick would probably let it simply wither away if enough time passed.

Sam found he wasn’t that strong.

“Dean’s dead.” He whispered to his coffee.

It was the first time he had said the words out loud. It made them more real somehow. More solid and irreversible.

 He almost threw up.

And Nick was taking his coffee away.

And Nick was pulling him to his feet, leading him down the hall.

“You are going to take a hot shower.” The Marshal instructed as he gently pushed Sam into the little bathroom. “Or a bath, if that’s your thing. And when you are done there will be some dry clothes, mac’n’cheese, and a beer waiting for you.”

Sam stood there numbly, looking at a round mirror over a sink, and clean white tiles. The tub was one of those old ones that stood on short, clawed feet. He didn’t even know that they made those anymore.

“Come on.” Nick urged softly, his hand sliding up Sam’s arm to grip his shoulder. “You need to warm up.”

He did. The cold from the rain had soaked into him, down in his bones. Nick’s chilly hand on his shoulder wasn’t helping matters. Still Sam stood, swaying just a little on his bare feet. Was he going into shock? He was almost forty-eight hours late to this party, but better late than never as the saying goes.

Nick sighed deeply and edged around Sam, turning on the water in the tub, letting it run at full blast until steam started to rise in a silver cloud, edging at the window and corners of the mirror. He put a little rubber stopper in, and apparently Sam was going to have a bath today.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had a bath.

The room grew pleasantly warm as the tub filled. It did a good job accentuating just how cold Sam really was. Cold enough that he had started to shake.

He looked down at his hands and dimly knew that the cold had nothing to do with the trembling.

Nick watched Sam instead of the water, something far too close to pity in his eyes, and neither of them said anything.

That silence separated them, and disturbingly, Sam became aware that he was well and truly alone for the first time in his life. It felt like a hole had been carved in his chest, like he had been broken open and left out for the scavengers.

Sam was dying.

This is what his brother had done to him.

This is what his brother had done _for_ him.

Dean really was the best kind of big brother.

“Oh, god.” Sam bit down on a horrible groan that tapered off into something far too closely related to a sob for his own liking. “He’s really dead.” All the wind was knocked out of him, as good as if he had been sucker punched in the gut. “He’s dead and I buried him.” Horror. There was only absolute horror at what he had done.

The bottom gave out and Sam sort of went away for a bit, falling, drifting, utterly lost in the madness of a world that didn’t include Dean. May never include Dean again.

He came to with his head resting on Nick’s leg, which was not particularly notable in itself, except that Sam was also sitting naked in waist high bathwater, with the Marshal perched on the edge of the tub, close as he could be without actually joining Sam in the water.

Strong fingers moved through Sam’s hair, stroking slowly. It was oddly soothing, much like the warm water, and the gentle notes that the Marshal was humming under his breath. Sam briefly entertained memories of something that happened roughly a lifetime ago. The two of them sitting quietly on an old lawn chair under a muggy Southern sun, while Nick’s hands worked slowly over Sam’s back.

There had not been near enough comfort in the whole of Sam’s life if all he had was now and that one hazy afternoon so long ago.  

“What song is that?” His voice was rough and his throat hurt oddly.

Nick stopped his gentle humming. “Welcome back. You feeling better?”

“It sounded nice.” Sam pressed, leaning heavily into the other man’s leg, smelling the clean soap scent of his jeans.

“I will take that as a ‘no’.” Nick huffed and let his fingers continue their slow dance over his scalp.

Sam closed his eyes, just breathing in the smell of Nick, trying not to let his thoughts settle too long on any one thing for fear of what it might do to him. “How did I get in the tub?”

“Carefully.” Came the answer after some consideration. “You‘re a lot of man to move around, Sam, especially when you’re half catatonic.”

Startled, Sam glanced up at Nick. “I… ok.” He didn’t know how to feel about that one. Didn’t know how to file away the knowledge that the Marshal had undressed him. “Why?”

Nick’s hand slid from Sam’s hair to brush unsteadily along his jaw, thumb wiping moisture from his cheek. “Because you needed to not be standing and you needed to be warm.”

“You could have put me on the couch.” Sam’s voice cracked oddly, and it was only then that he realized he had been crying, that he still was.

The Marshal said nothing, just brushed his thumb back over Sam’s cheek. So slow. So careful.

Sam closed his eyes and pressed his face back into Nick’s leg, hiding from the light which was suddenly too bright for him.  “ ‘m sorry.” He whispered, not knowing exactly what he was trying to apologize for.

Seemingly not interested, Nick only shushed him and resumed petting. The Marshal’s hand moved comfortably slow and steady like he was attempting to keep time with his stokes. Sam wished he could crawl up out of the water and into Nick’s lap- despite that fact that he was far too tall, and long, and weak from emotions he didn’t want to cope with right now. He would just have to settle for what he could get. Any comfort was welcome at this point.

The water grew tepid around the same time that the horrible tightness in Sam’s chest loosened enough for him to breathe without dragging up any more of those odd little sobbing sounds. It was like the damn had finally broken open and let out two days worth of pent up misery. Sure, Sam would have to face Dean’s death at some point, but right now was certainly not the most convenient time for it. Though not exactly bent on swallowing down all emotions, Sam was never the less against sharing ones like these with other people.

Nick was a good man, but they really didn’t know each other all that well (except in the biblical sense, which didn’t count for much in the grand scheme of things), at least not enough that Nick should be made to suffer through such a spectacular breakdown.

 “How you feeling?” From the concerned way he spoke, it was obvious Nick didn’t feel the same way that Sam did about this mess.

“Tired.” He said once he was sure his voice would come out passably normal.

“And hungry?”

How long had it been since Sam had last eaten? He couldn’t remember any breakfast today… or yesterday. No wonder he was a wreck. He would gladly blame this all on low blood sugar if he had the option. 

“Maybe a little.”

“I’ve been listening to this horrible growling for almost an hour. It’s a relief to know it’s your stomach and not a-”

“Not a werewolf?” Sam offered, trying to smile through the sick feeling that hadn’t quite lifted.

“You and your werewolves.” Nick curled down around him, kissing the top of his head, and then they both grew uncomfortably still.

It wasn’t like the gesture was anything new or shocking. It was just… just not what was expected to come of this meeting. They had said their goodbyes a year ago- or Nick did at least. Sam had just sat there.

Sam was doing the same thing now. Looking up at Nick, wondering how he could make this stop.

Nick beat him to the punch line, thumb making that same dance down Sam’s cheek as it had before, but this time detouring to trail over Sam’s lip. That little touch. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to let Sam know that he had the strength to get up.

Not enough to get out of the tub, but enough to sit up straight, slide a hand over Nick’s shoulder and pull him down into a damning kiss.

Someone’s breath hitched and someone else moaned and they were both of them lost.

It was by no means what Sam needed, but it was what he suddenly wanted, wanted with a violent hunger. The other man’s mouth against his was nothing short of the world’s greatest distraction from everything that had gone so very wrong in the last few days. Everything else could just fall away, fade to the background. The only thing that mattered was the way that Nick was leaning over him, clinging unsteadily to the edges of the tub for support while he answered each of Sam’s slow kisses in kind.

That was up until Sam tried to lick into his mouth, greedy, covetous. Nick pulled away, breathing warmly over his lips, whispering some kind of nonsense that wasn’t meant to be understood. It kept the distance between them, enough space for the hunter to watch the pupils of the other man’s eyes devouring the icy blue. Sam bit at the air, teeth almost catching Nick’s lip, but the space between them only widened.

“Sam, this-” he seemed to struggle with finding the right words, the same way he struggled to keep his eyes locked with Sam’s. “This is a horrible coping mechanism.”

To which Sam may have answered in something close to a growl. There was only one damn thing in the whole of the world that he wanted in this moment and there was only one person keeping him from it. For some reason, more than anything, this made him angry. (It hardly seemed to matter that the two were one in the same.)

“It’s not going to make you feel better.” Nick insisted with only a hint of conviction in his tone.

It was obvious that Nick didn’t know him well enough, because this was exactly the kind of distraction that would make Sam feel intensely better. Anger and passion were too close to the surface, too similar to tell apart. “Fuck you.”  He said as something halfway between a curse and a demand.

“What did I _just_ say?” Nick almost smiled while he expertly dodged what would have been a very convincing kiss and would have certainly stopped all this nonproductive stalling. “You are not fucking me. I am not fucking you or any combination or variation thereof. What you need is to eat and sleep, to be warm and maybe a little drunk. These things will help.” He shifted his weight where he was perched, teetering dangerously. “This,” his eyes flicked down Sam’s chest and a smidge lower for just a second, “this won’t.”

Sam, who was not interested in this particular opinion, simply ignored it. Fingers curled in short blonde hair, pulling the Marshal back in.

But Nick had the higher ground, he had better leverage, and he kept those awful inches between their lips.  “How did I ever forget how difficult you are?”

“Nick- it’s not coping. It’s just a distraction.” His anger was ebbing, and he tightened his grip in Nick’s hair, holding on to what he could. “I _need_ a distraction.”

“Let me help. Get you cleaned up, fed, place to sleep, whatever else you need.  Just not-” Nick tried to readjust but he was already leaned too far over and almost slipped. “We can talk about this again in a few days if you’re still interested.” His words were uneven, and it was hard to say if it was out of concern for the perilous position he had let himself get pulled into or if it had more to do with Sam’s words.

“Still interested?” He repeated like they were a foreign language, the syllables sounding wrong together.

“You’re not…” Nick pursed his lips and looked away. “Now might not be the best time for you to …” He glanced back at Sam and there was a ghost of a smile on the edges of his lips. “I have no idea what to say right now.”

Sam realized one of them had made a misstep at some point, but he couldn’t say who. He let his hand slip down to the back of Nick’s neck, resting against him instead of holding him in place, looking up at the other man and it was an unfamiliar posture for him. He hadn’t had to look up at anyone in years.

“Are you really going to make mac n’ cheese?”

That smile grew a fraction until it almost reached his eyes. “I’ve got a box of Kraft I might be willing to part with.”

“My brother used to make that for us when we were kids.” The words didn’t hurt as much as he expected them to, which was to say that instead of the mention of Dean being accompanied by a horrible stabbing pain, all Sam got was this awful wrenching feeling that left him short of breath and his eyes stinging.

Nick winced visibly. “I can make something else.”

“I’d love some Kraft.”

“Then Kraft is what you will have.” Nick assured.

About an hour later Sam had a pleasantly full stomach and a pleasantly comfortable beer buzz.  The Marshal had made good on his word. There had been cheep and cheesy noodles, a few bottles of lager, and one of the warmest, softest blankets that Sam had ever had the pleasure of meeting. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but he was half laying on top of Nick, the two of them sprawled out on a lumpy couch. The rain was still coming down outside and it was a nice counterpoint to the rise and fall of Nick’s voice as he softly read Asimov. Sam wasn’t all that interested in robots, not even academically, but he did enjoy the sound of Nick speaking, long slow words and it didn’t matter what they were or what they meant.

He had been right. Nick, not Sam. Everything was still awful, but somehow considerably less so now that the brunt of his basic human needs had been cared for. The world was golden tinged with alcohol, this horrible Dean-less world that Sam had found himself in, but he wasn’t alone in it. Not for right now. Right now he could hear the steady beating of Nick’s heart from where he had his head resting on the man’s chest, rising and falling with each breath. Sam was too long for the couch, his legs splayed out at weird angles, one foot out in empty air, one on the floor, his borrowed sweatpants too short to keep his pale ankles covered. It was awkward and good at the same time.

“I like the glasses.” He slurred softly.

Nick glanced up over the top of his book, his eyes a bit brighter than usual behind the slight magnification, but he didn’t miss a beat, the story running sweetly from his lips.

“They make you look older.”

Nick frowned and held the book a bit higher, hiding his glasses. “Now that’s just mean.”

Sam closed his eyes, feeling a bit drowsy, and he didn’t know if he had slept since he put his brother in the ground. That had to be over forty-eight hours ago. He didn’t have a whole lot to offer at this point, just a few soft words of his own. “It’s a good older. Dignified.”

“Hey now.” Nick set his book down so he could glair properly at Sam. “I am _not_ dignified. I don’t come into your house and insult you.”

“Ha. You can’t. I don’t have a house.” He clumsily reached for his beer on the coffee table, but the only bottle he found was empty.

Nick’s hand slid along his arm until he found Sam’s wrist and gently pulled him back beneath the blanket. “Hush.” His touch lingered a little too long as he tucked the hunter in, touching his shoulder and his then his hair. “You want more beer or robots?”

Sam blinked slowly, considering these options. “I think I need to sleep. I might be a little drunk.”

“Robots it is.” Nick declared and picked back up his book.

“Nick,” Sam started before the Marshal could start reading again.

“Hmm?”

“Why am I here?”

Nick didn’t look at him, wouldn’t meet his eye as he thumbed the yellowed pages of his book. “You can probably answer that one better than I can. I honestly don’t know how you found me.”

“I didn’t find you. Not on purpose. The car ran out of gas and I just walked to the nearest house.” Sam found his thoughts to be nicely muddy and it made it difficult to get everything in order. “I mean… I meant why did you let me in?”

Nick finally looked at him, and it was a look of pure confusion. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because… you said goodbye.”

Pain passed over Nick’s face, fast as a guitar string snapping, gone before Sam was even sure if he had seen it. “Sam, I will _always_ let you in.” He took a measured breath before continuing. “Now get some sleep. You look like hell.”

Sam looked up at him, knowing that if he was sober and in his right mind that there was something that he should be saying right now. Instead he closed his eyes, snuggling deeper between the blanket and Nick, fidgeting until he managed to weasel his arms around the man’s midsection, holding him close. Sam would take anything he could get. Anything at all. Any touch or taste or caress that meant that he wasn’t alone.

Just as long as he wasn’t alone.

Long moments passed before Nick started reading again, soft words that were lost to Sam as he slipped off into unconsciousness, only echoes reaching him, little pieces to remember with confusion when he woke.

“ _It is the obvious which is so difficult to see most of the time. People say 'It's as plain as the nose on your face.' But how much of the nose on your face can you see, unless someone holds a mirror up to you_.”

.:.

At some point during the night, or in the morning’s worth of sleeping, Nick had made a point to cocoon Sam into this plush blankety-couch burrito of immobility. It was an oddly comfortable way of waking up so he wasn’t complaining. It certainly beat a lumpy motel mattress. He tried to stretch out only to realize that Nick had not just wrapped him up, he had tucked Sam _into_ the couch, very, very firmly.

He opened his eyes and looked around the sunny living room. The curtain had been drawn, but the edges glowed with warm afternoon sunlight.  

“Nick?”

“In the kitchen.” Came the call from the other side of the house.

“Why am I stuck to the couch?” He finally got an arm free and started untucking himself.

“Because you are going to let me make you some god damned French toast.” The blonde man appeared beside Sam’s feet, a stern look on his face. “No booze today. Today you are letting me make you a solid breakfast.”

Sam sat up on his elbows, shaking hair from his eyes. His head throbbed a bit with the threat of a hangover and he thought Nick wise in his insistence of sobriety. “French toast?” He had never actually had French toast before. Ever since he was a little kid it was cold cereal up until he graduated to doughnuts and coffee. Living on the road the majority of his life didn’t lead to many exciting culinary opportunities.

“I’m an awful cook,” Nick confessed. “So don’t expect anything too great.” There was a bit of a smile and it softened his words. “I moved your car to the garage this morning. Wasn’t sure it should stay out in this weather.”

“Did you get it towed here?”

He didn’t answer right away and when he spoke it was slow and careful. “Had the AAA guy bring it in, put a few gallons of gas in the tank.”

“I told you I ran out of gas.” He had no idea why Nick hadn’t believed him last night- though Sam supposed that as coincidences went, running into Nick in the middle of nowhere like he had really sounded too contrived to be true. It was more like a bad plot twist in a poorly written story than something that could actually happen.

Nick was looking at Sam oddly. “I took the liberty of throwing your duffle bag of clothes through the wash. Figured that if I keep you too drunk to drive away I can hold onto you for a few more days and you might want some clothes that actually fit you during that time.” He sort of smiled then, more worry than cheer in the expression. “You stay there, alright? French toast, coffee. A nice sober breakfast.”

Sam watched the Marshal, too tired to say much of anything contrary. He wasn’t used to letting people take care of him, but at the same time he was so grateful for the gesture that he wanted to cry.

“Are you going to stay put on your own or do I need to get out my handcuffs?”

The hunter lay back on the couch, settling against the arm rest, not entirely sure if the other man was teasing him or not. He decided it wasn’t worth the risk. “I’ll stay put.”

“Pity.” Nick said with a shrug and wandered back off to the kitchen to clang around and make odd noises and good smells.

Sam watched him go, well worn tshirt and well fitting jeans. He remembered last night, resting against that body, falling asleep against his chest- then he remembered before the couch, he remembered the bathtub, and he was suddenly stricken with embarrassment.

“Nick?”

“Yes?” He called back.

“I’m sorry about last night. How I acted- I shouldn’t have… I just shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Last night you were a perfect  gentleman.” Nick said easily, but not convincingly. It meant that this wasn’t a talk that they were going to have.

And today, in light of everything else, the hunter would take his pardon with grace.

Sam rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket up almost to his eyes. If he tried hard enough he could almost believe that nothing was wrong with the world. He could pretend that he was on some kind of vacation, just taking a little break between hunts to visit an old friend.

Except it was a giant lie. This wasn’t a vacation, it was an asylum. Somewhere he could fall apart in peace. Somewhere where he could wait for his mind to finish unraveling before he pulled himself back together and got back on the road. He had a whole shopping list of demons that needed killing, as well as a brother that he needed to barter for, or summon, or make a blood sacrifice to… or whatever the universe wanted from him to set things right.

But he couldn’t do it now. He couldn’t even think about his brother without feeling like he was drowning, left panic and gasping for air.

He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

He just needed a few days to pull all his raying edges back together. If he went out like he was now he was liable to get himself killed.

Dean wouldn’t hold it against him.

Dean would understand.

When he was back topside he would forgive Sam for the few days of mourning.

Keys rattled outside on the porch. Just a hushed, unassuming sound- but it set Sam on edge.

Then the door opened and that was worse somehow.

The man was tall, probably only a few inches shorter than Sam, dark hair and pale eyes. With his strong jaw and olive skin, calling him handsome would have been an understatement and suddenly Sam realized why Nick shot him down last night.

The Marshal had never told Sam ‘no’ before, at least not with any real force behind it. But seeing this man letting himself into the house like he owned the place, easily carrying an arm full of groceries, wearing a soft smile, it was all a little obvious.

Nick had a boyfriend.

Sam had never even considered this contingency and he suddenly had no idea whatsoever as to what this meant for him.

“Nick?” The man had a pleasantly low voice. He was busying himself with setting his paper bag of food on the little table beside the door and shrugging out of his jacket. He hadn’t noticed the ample amount of man huddled on the couch. Not yet.

There was a small crashing sound of metal against tile from the kitchen. “Mike?” Nick emerged from the kitchen, eyes a little wide. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I would come back to check on you Wednesday.”

“Is it Wednesday?”

“I’m here aren’t I?” The man, Mike apparently, looked more exasperated than anything else as he walked over to Nick, pushing the bag into his arms, and kissing the Marshal lightly on the cheek.

Sam was horribly uncomfortable watching the innocent exchange. He felt like he should make a noise or something, to let them both know that he was still laying there, just half a room away. Nick apparently didn’t need the reminder and he glanced sideways at Sam with a completely unreadable expression before looking back at the man who was standing oh so close to him.

“I guess I lost track of what day it was.”

“Not surprising with all the meds they’ve got you on.” He was painfully close to Nick, close enough that he didn’t have to reach very far to run a hand up Nick’s chest. It was such a tender, intimate gesture. “You’ve been sleeping ok then?”

“I’m fine.” Nick batted the man’s hand away, face a little red.

“You don’t look fine. Why don’t you go sit down, I’ll make us breakfast.”

“I’m already making breakfast.” Nick sounded more frustrated than anything else.

“You shouldn’t strain yourself. Go. Sit.” The man insisted firmly, taking back the bag and pushing Nick towards the living room. “I can take care of-“ He saw Sam for the first time, or at least the notable lump of blanket and legs that was Sam. His face went through a blitz of emotions, surprise, confusion, suspicion, before finally setting on an expertly constructed smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “Hello.”

Sam sat up, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders, knowing he must look at least half as awful as he felt. He wasn’t completely thrilled with the idea of meeting Nick’s boyfriend, or thrilled at all really, but he could at least get up for it and put on an equally unconvincing smile.

“Good morning.” He offered, pleased at how normal his voice sounded.

The dark haired man nodded before turning to Nick, his smile going brittle. “You didn’t tell me you had a… _friend_ staying over.”

“I didn’t know I needed to run it by you.” Nick had found that particular tone that Dean always managed when Sam was being particularly difficult. “I will call you next time I want to have a sleep over. Make sure you approve of all the other kids first.”

“Did he sleep in your bed?”

“ _Yes_.” Which was a lie, but by the amount of sarcasm Nick put in that single word it was obvious that he wasn’t  hoping to be believed. “That’s why he’s out here, still half asleep, on the couch.”

Sam wasn’t used to people talking about him like he wasn’t there. He found he didn’t like it. He got up, knowing that he was wearing borrowed clothes that were too short in a few different direction, but also knowing how to use his height when he needed it. He wouldn’t be intimidated by the new guy.

“My name is Sam.” He held out a hand to shake, he could be polite. He had almost gotten a degree from Stanford in it.

“I’m Michael.” He shook Sam’s hand firmly, making professional levels of eye contact. It was like he was taking in the entire hunter, cataloging every bump and scrape on him, his too long hair, his borrowed clothes, assessing the sort of man who stood before him. He let go of Sam a little after the point where social norms said that he should have, before turning to look at the Marshal. “Nick, kitchen, now. I need to talk to you.”

Sam found himself sitting on the couch alone, smelling slightly burnt breakfast, and listening to snatches of a conversation not meant for his ears.

Any other day and he would have known how to deal with this- but Nick moving on wasn’t all that important any more. He supposed that it was all a matter of perspective.

Sure, it hurt like hell, and he supposed that he would never really get over his first… his first whatever Nick was to him. But Sam was here because he had run out of gas, and he had stayed because one place to sleep was as good as any. The only thing that changed with this new revelation was that Sam’s visit might be a little shorter.

If Michael’s few raised words were any indication, then it might be particularly short.

It felt too much like sitting and waiting for a sentencing.

A while later Michael was back out where Sam could see him, pulling his jacket on with quick, angry jerks. The lines of his face had settled into deep irritation- and he looked like he was about to stomp his way outside but he took a moment to turn back to Sam and find a little, bland perjury of a smile.

“It’s nice to finally put a face with your name, Sam. He used to talk about you.” Michael zipped up his jacket. “If my brother gets out of line, feel free to call me. I’m on his speed dial.” With that he left, and Sam found himself laughing into the stunned silence before it had a chance to grow too unruly.

Nick came and cautiously sat on the arm of the couch. “I’ve never found his jokes all that funny myself.”

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to rid himself of a smile that felt grossly inappropriate. “ _That_ was Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Your _brother_ Michael? The one you used to tell me about? Who you threw dead mice at when he tried to follow you up into your tree house- who would make you fold all your socks and sort them by color?” Sam remembered those little stories that Nick had told him through texts during long car rides. For whatever reason Sam had never pictured Michael quite so… grumpy faced.

“I’ve only got the one brother.” Nick sill sounded cautious, like he couldn’t anticipate where the hunter was going with this new line of questions. 

“I thought he was your boyfriend.” Sam started laughing again, horribly inappropriate noise rioting through his chest.

Nick’s eye narrowed slightly.

“He had a key and let himself in.” Sam had to look away. He couldn’t keep the slightly manic laughter under control with Nick pouting at him. “Then he was getting all handsy- what was I suppose to think?”

Nick sighed and tugged at his lower lip. “You should think pretty much anything other than that I might be dating my brother.”

 “In my defense, you two don’t look that much alike. He was just a handsome guy who was petting you.”

He shrugged in an aggressive way if such a thing was possible. “So now he gets to be the handsome twin? You’ve been picking on me since last night and I don’t know why.”

“You two are… twins?” Sam glanced over, surprised right back out of his laughter.

“That’s what the doctors said at least.” He tugged at his lip again. “He fusses over me more like a mom than a brother - or a boyfriend for that matter.

Sam smiled faintly, because he knew that feeling. “I think maybe all big brothers are like that, even ones who aren’t all that much older.”

Nick sighed again, still looking slightly agitated. “I just don’t see how you could think I would date an ass like him.”

“He didn’t seem like an ass.” Sam started folding his blanket, carefully lining up the corners. “He brought you groceries.”

“Yeah well, he likes taking care of me. It gives him a chance to feel charitable and superior all in one go.” He stood, looking down at Sam, gently taking the blanket from him and tossing it recklessly over the back of the couch, undoing all Sam’s work. “Come on, your breakfast is probably cold by now.”

Sam followed him to the kitchen, limbs feeling stiff from having to sleep in such an odd position just so he could fit on the couch. Maybe he should have tried to sleep in Nick’s bed with him. It might have been more comfortable.

There was a nice little breakfast laid out for two on the table. Nothing fancy, but appetizing all the same.

As it turned out, cold French toast wasn’t bad at all.

Nick sat beside him, an improvement over yesterday, but Sam supposed that they had reestablished some of their boundaries since then. The nearness was more welcome than uncomfortable.

The Marshal had a handful of colorful pills with his breakfast and Sam didn’t ask, he didn’t feel like it was any of his business.

“This one’s a vitamin.” Nick held up a long grey-blue pill for Sam’s inspection. “I’ve officially become old enough that I’m supposed to be taking them.”

Sam looked at the pill, then the man holding it, then at the little pile of medication still on the table.

“I thought it might be best to explain.”  Nick said as if to clarify.

“You don’t have to-“

“Apparently I do.” He shook the pill at Sam before popping it into his mouth and swallowing. “Because when I didn’t earlier you thought I was dating my brother.” Nick gave him a pointed look before holding up a yellow pill with thin black stripes on one end. “And this one is an antibiotic.” He took it in turn. “And these little beauties are for the pain.” He threw back two little bright colored ones.

Despite still feeling slightly numb with the shock of the last few days, Sam managed to get his thoughts in roughly the right order, enough to ask the logical question that needed to follow.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m getting there.” Nick took a sip of his coffee while his eyes grew distant. “I was shot about a month ago. Two bullets went straight through- one hit bone and broke apart. I’ve still got some shrapnel in me and it hurts like a son of a bitch.”

For a moment Sam struggled to find the right thing to say to that. ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t seem strong enough, and ‘are you ok’ was already asked and answered.

“Where’d you get shot?” He finally managed.

Nick slouched in his chair, getting even lower so as to better look up at Sam with eyes the color of faded robin’s eggs. “Out in Texas. South of Forth Worth.”

“No, no. I mean-“

“I knew what you meant.” Nick took another sip of his coffee then held the mug to his stomach, hands curling around it, holding on to the warmth. “I’m just being difficult.” He graced Sam with a little wry curve of a smile. “Two through the chest, one in the left shoulder.”

Because it seemed like the only thing to do, Sam reached out to the other man- but he stopped himself before he touched skin or clothes. “Through the chest?”

“Yup.” He raised his coffee to his mouth but aborted the movement halfway and set the mug on the table instead. “Work hazard. It’s not the first time I’ve been shot- but it’s the first time someone did such a good job of it. They’ve had me out on medical leave since I was discharged from the hospital and it’s driving me slowly crazy. No job to go to and too doped up on pain pills to drive myself anywhere. I’m not used to being stuck for so long in one place with nothing to do.”

“I know that feeling.” Sam said with deep empathy. “Me and… Dean, we never stayed anywhere for too long.” And just like that he lost his appetite, most of his food left untouched. He hoped that this sickness would fade eventually, there was no telling how long he could live if every time he thought of his brother he was overtaken with a crippling sense of sorrow and guilt.

Nick was oddly good at reading the little shift in Sam and he immediately put on a wide smile, which looked very out of place on his usually sober face. “Want to see?”

Sam blinked, startled and thrown off, which was in truth the Marshal’s plan. “See…?”

“My new scars. I would say I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, but I’ve had the pleasure of helping you undress recently. I’ve seen all you have to offer.” Nick’s smile turned a little cheeky and Sam found himself completely lost. It was like being caught in high beams.

There was virtually no way to mourn properly with all that smile coming at him. All he could do was blink and nod. Not entirely sure what he was agreeing to.

The Marshal tugged down the collar of his tshirt showing two angry red scars dimpling the muscle of his chest, cutting into the edges of one of his tattoos. They were bigger than they should have been for simple bullet holes, messy and as slick as melted wax.

“These are exit wounds.” Sam looked up from the scars to see that Nick’s smile had all but left, leaving a far more familiar tired expressing in its wake. “You were shot in the back?”

“That I was.” He let go of his shirt, letting it resettle and hide the ugly marks. “Doctor said that the last bullet missed my heart by about two centimeters. Michael declared it some kind of miracle, a second chance to repent of my heathen ways. I think that the guy was just a lousy shot.”

For a moment, Sam considered where he would be right now if the man in Texas had slightly better aim. No one would have opened the door for him. Sam would have kept walking. Would have got some gas for the Impala. Would have been back on the road plotting ways to pulls his big brother back up from hell. Slowly ruining himself with all consuming thoughts of revenge and destruction.

But Nick was alive, and Sam was warm, and fed, and edging ever closer to the borders of sanity. He was a mess, still felt more like a fallout shelter than a man- but it would pass. Nick was alive and Sam had been given a chance to heal before he took the opportunity to tear himself apart.

Miracle or lousy shot.

Either way.

.:.

Sam woke from a nap on the couch. The living room was dark and as he pulled the blankets tighter around himself he remembered that it hadn’t been a nap. It was nighttime and there was no reason to be awake. Except he was alone, and cold… and most of all alone. He didn’t know when Nick left, sometime between now and when Sam had fallen asleep. He had left the same way the past few nights. It was a horrible habit that he had, leaving the too small couch to Sam’s long body. There when the hunter fell asleep, then off in the kitchen when the hunter woke.

Over an hour later Sam was still awake.

It was a fresh, new hell that he found.

After only a few days worth of conditioning he couldn’t fall asleep without Nick.

He wore the blanket, which had quickly become _his_ blanker, wrapped around his shoulders like a cape as he wandered the downstairs looking for Nick. In the few days that he had stayed here, he had never really gone anywhere other than the kitchen, the bathroom and the living room couch.

Turning on and off lights as he went, Sam discovered an office cluttered with banker boxes stacked high on a desk beside a computer that didn’t look like it had been used in the last fifteen years. He also found a gaping hole around the bend at the end of the hallway, and it took him many long seconds of staring down into the sudden abyss to realize that it was a doorway down into the basement- just without the safety of a door.

He went back through the living room, down the other hall and carefully climbed the stairs.

It wasn’t like Sam to systematically search people’s homes, but he needed Nick. The need lead him up the well worn stairs that creaked softly under his weight, then down a hall that he had never traveled before.

Two room and a second bath. One bedroom had a queen sized bed, cozy and clean with delicate lacy curtains and other uncomfortably feminine touches. The second bedroom had bunk beds, and the restlessly sleeping body of a US Marshal on the bottom bunk.

“Nick?” Sam asked barely above a whisper, not sure if he should actually wake the man now that he found him. The stacked beds were really throwing him off for some reason. This was not the house of a slightly alcoholic policeman. This was the home of a family. It didn’t feel wrong, so much as simply _not right_. He called the other man’s name again, a little louder, watching as the Marshal turned his face towards the warm yellow glow of the hall light.

“Sam… what is it?” His voice was low and graveled.

“I couldn’t sleep.”  And Sam was suddenly six years old again, standing there wrapped in a blanket, confessing that there was still something in the dark that scared him.

Nick didn’t tease Sam, he just held and arm open to him, beckoning. Honestly, Sam didn’t even need that much encouragement.

The two of there were really too much for the little bed, but they made it work, settling into a tangle of limbs, Nick half lying on top of Sam for the sake of variation.

“Are you warm enough?” He asked Sam’s neck, warm breath ghosting over him, tickling just a little.

“Yes… why are we in a bunk bed?” The hall light was still on, casting long shadows, making the slats and the underside of the mattress above them look like a confusion of geometric shapes.

“I’m here because it’s my bed. _We’re_ here because you just can’t seem to get enough of me.” Nick gently teased, smoothing a hand over Sam’s chest, sleepy and gentle.

Sam settled a hand over Nick’s. “I don’t know if I can sleep on Star Wars sheets.”

“You’re in luck, those are in the laundry. These ones have dinosaurs. Now go back to sleep.”

Wind blew outside and tree branches scratched against the siding. “Do you have kids?” Sam didn’t know that his voice could go so quiet.

“Hmm?” Nick yawned before touching his lips against Sam’s throat. “Kids? Oh, god. I hope not.”

“Then why do you have a kid’s room in your house?”

“Ah, I can see your confusion.” Nick’s fingers tightened around Sam’s. “This isn’t my house.”

The hunter grew still, listening to the wind, listening to the Marshal breathing.

“Nick?”

“It’s my parent’s house.” He chuckled like it was a joke, teasing Sam. “They moved out to Florida about a year ago, but they didn’t want to sell, and it seemed as good as any a place for me to mend.”

Sam instantly relaxed, settling comfortably into the idea of sleeping in Nick’s bed. Warm and safe and so very much like two kids huddled together against the night. It was hard to fight the idea from where he lay, looking at a Scooby Doo alarm clock and a David Bowie poster. It was definitely the room of a young teen, but not one from this decade.

“You haven’t lived here in a long time, have you?”

“No.”

“I like the decorations.”

“Less awe for the room, more sleep.” Nick demanded with a pointed yawn.

Sam had never been all that good at following orders, but less than a minute later he was asleep.

He woke again when the weak morning sun started to mingle with the hall light that he had left on hours ago. And for once, just once, Nick was still there with him. The Marshal was half asleep, eyes partially opened, curled around Sam, holding him close like a favorite teddy bear.

It was pleasant company to wake to, and for the first time since he had put Dean in the ground, Sam felt like eventually things might be ok again. Not today, not next week, but somewhere down the line when he found a way to reclaim his brother from the damnation of self sacrifice and bad decisions.

Instead of knowing that one day it would be ok, Sam actually believed it.

Nick kissed the soft pulse in his throat- which for the record, was a beautiful way to announce that he had woken up.

“Morning.”

“Mfng.” Nick grunted happily against his skin.

“I think it’s raining again.”

“Mmnhm.” His stubble was scratchy on the soft skin of Sam’s neck. “It is what they call… the rainy season.”

“Smart ass.” Sam replied affectionately.

“Oh, I was when I was young.” Nick was smiling, it could be heard in his voice, even if he had hidden his face where it was impossible to read. “I’m lucky you didn’t meet me back then. I was an insufferable little prick for years.”

Sam found himself smiling back, just a soft memory of humor, of how this sort of exchange was supposed to be handled. “You still are.”

“No. Now I’m charming.” He fumbled at the blankets and pulled them higher, almost completely vanishing beneath them.  

“Distinguished?”

Nick responded to such name calling by biting Sam. Not particularly hard, but hard enough to leave no question as to how he felt about being called such a horrible thing. “Here I am, taking care of you for weeks, out of the goodness of my heart, and you’re still picking on me.”

“I’ve been here like four days.” Sam rolled his eyes, too tired for such dramatic declarations.

Nick rose up on his right elbow, keeping the weight off his bad side. “Sam?”

He frowned, not liking the way the Marshal was looking at him. “What is it?”

“You’ve been here over two weeks.”

Such a ridiculous idea, Sam didn’t even have a reply.

“Granted, you spent the first week and a half blind drunk so it’s not surprising that you don’t remember.”

The pleasant early morning glow vanished as Sam pressed a hand over his eyes. Two weeks? He only really remembered one night of drinking, not a week’s worth.

“Now, I prefer you sober, personally, but drunk-Sam does tell some fairly interesting stories.”

“Did I?”

“Oh, you did.” He assured. “You also get real handsy… and mouthy.”

Sam peered out from between his fingers, looking up at the man leaning over him. Every angle of Nick looked sincere and Sam had no doubts that he had made a right ass out of himself.

“I’m _so_ sorry.” Sam whispered, feeling well enough to be absolutely mortified at the thought of all the things that drunk him might have said or done. “I don’t usually…”

“Get black out drunk for days on end?” Nick easily filled the pause that Sam left. “You were coping. It’s healthy.”

“Healthy?”

“I’m sure that your liver didn’t appreciate it, but you did a lot of yelling and lamenting, gnashing of teeth and all that- and it’s good to get it out of your system.”

Sam hid back behind his hand. “I can leave this afternoon.”

Nick hit him firmly in the center of his chest, an angry swat meant to get his attention more than anything else. “Don’t be dramatic. I’m not kicking you out, you big pathetic moose of a man.”

“Moose?”

“You can stay. I want you to stay.” And despite the fact that Sam was still hiding behind his hand like a little kid, Nick kissed him. A slow, tender kiss. “For another few days.” A second kiss. “Or a month.” A third, longer kiss. “Or just forever.”

Sam was expecting one more kiss to even things out, but he was disappointed. He opened his eyes and let his hand fall away to look up at the Marshal still leaning over him. There was a look of fear to him, shock making his eyes wide and even paler than usual. Sam had the distinct feeling that those last words were an equal surprise for both of them.

When Nick found his voice again it sounded more like an apology than anything else. “I just… feel like you should be made aware of your options.”

Sam couldn’t answer. It was too terrible, too beautiful of an offer. He kissed Nick instead, which could have been taken for an answer on its own, though not a definitive one. Soft kisses quickly turned to slow, opened mouthed ones, hungry like they were both starving.

Nick pulled away first, because Nick always pulled away first. “You know,” his voice was strained on an uneven laugh. “I’ve never had a boy up here in my  room before.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” Sam promised with a little, unwilling chuckle.

Nick was settling against him, one thigh brushing up against Sam’s hip. “Who would you tell? My father, the _Reverend_ , is a half senile, half deaf old man who doesn’t believe in homosexuality- and my mom would just find you adorable and try to feed you something. Also, both are still in Florida.”

“I won’t tell your brother then.” Sam relented, gazing up at Nick, trying to maintain the banter while keeping the adoration off his face.

“You know,” Nick slowly ran a hand through Sam’s hair, “he was never all that bothered by who I was touching. He says that I am just a prodigal son who will repent once I tire of my heathen ways.”

“Heathen ways?” Sam found his eyes drifting close at the caress.

“He was much more upset by me falling in love with a guy instead of the idea of me sleeping with one.”

Sam was sure he made a noise then, something dreadful and condemning and all he could do was look up at Nick, so lost. Worst than the night that they met.

And for the first time, he didn’t want to be found.

“That was… a little too honest, wasn’t it?” Nick averted his eyes, sort of smiling, almost embarrassed. “I always seem to say the most asinine things when I’m around you.”

“Say it again?” Sam felt breathless and he couldn’t say why.

Nick looked startled by the sudden demand, propping himself back up on his elbows, giving himself the proper distance needed to stare at him. “I wish you could see the way you look at me, Sam. Like I’m the ocean and you’re desperate to drown.”

“Please. I just need to hear it one more time.”

“You know, you never struck me as the romantic type.”

“I’m not. Not really. I just…”

Nick kissed him, silencing those aimless words. He didn’t say it again because talk is cheap and other such clichés. Instead they kissed like it was the end of all things.

Like the last kiss that would go on record as the world died, and they wanted to make it a good one.

They made love on a narrow bed, on sheets printed with red and blue dinosaurs of all things. It wasn’t _sex_ , or anything so carnal or sinful. It was… _romantic_ , and perfect, and everything that books and movies like make such things out to be. Slow touches and soft sighs, and Sam didn’t think that Nick’s mouth ever left his for longer than it took to whisper his name.

There were worst things that could happen.

Dinosaurs aside.

The rain drummed on outside, the sunlight coming and diming in waves as great grey clouds passed over the house and the two lay in each other’s arms. Not speaking. Not needing to.  Simply _being_. And for that morning, it was enough.

Maybe Sam would stay a few more days, long enough that he started to feel happy again. Long enough that he would start to feel guilty for feeling happy. Maybe there would come a time when he would leave in the middle of the night, weeks later, with only a note pinned to the door as explanation. As a goodbye.

Perhaps it all still had a chance of a happy ending though, with Dean being dragged back to earth by independently divine forces completely beyond Sam’s scope of control. Stranger things had happened, surely. Stranger, but few as wonderful.

And maybe, just maybe, by one more lightning strike of bizarre circumstance and coincidence, Sam would get to see Nick again, somewhere out in Detroit- and maybe one last time, he would tell Nick ‘yes’, because Sam had never really be able to tell him no.

But those are different stories, with different ends, dark and light paths as yet not tread.

This story instead ends the same way it started. With Sam looking for and finding a place to hide from the storm.


End file.
